


Beds are Burning

by Cantique



Series: Empty Saddles, New Frontiers [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantique/pseuds/Cantique
Summary: SEQUEL TO THESE VIOLENT DELIGHTS HAVE VIOLENT ENDS---Australia is in political turmoil. A revolution is bubbling, and recently exposed government links to Omnic activity have placed things at breaking point. It all comes down to you, the figurehead of a revolution that your husband started before his untimely passing. An obligation to the people. An obligation to his memory you're sworn to carry on. An obligation that lands you locked up in a bunker, kidnapped by Roadhog and Junkrat. Only it's not a kidnapping. It's a rescue mission, and it's lead by a Cowboy.Jesse McCree is assigned as your personal security now that Overwatch are invested in a change of government. He thinks you're hypocritical. You think he's a deadbeat. Junkrat just wants people to stop hitting on his sister. Symmetra is placed in a covert ops position and hates it.--Shameless Jesse McCree/Reader fic that follows the events of These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends. Lots of politics.





	1. Great Southern Land

**Author's Note:**

> It's CRUCIAL that you read at least the last four or so chapters of These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends, or this might not make much sense. This one is a real slow burn but please be patient. I got good stuff cooking, lots of it coming back to some of the stuff that happened and wasn't resolved in TVDHVE.
> 
> CW: Swearing, Jesse hitting on people, themes of political instability, kidnapping.

Even in times like this, you find yourself falling into your habits -- your 'rituals.' Your captors have been kind enough to grant them to you, even though you have no idea where exactly you are or when you're going to leave.

In the morning you rise from your small, uncomfortable bed and wash your face, looking carefully in the scratched up mirror for any changes to your skin. There are bags under your eyes, but luckily you're otherwise unscathed. You brush your hair with a comb you found under the sink in a grimy but still usable state, and then you return to your bed to sit and wait for the big one to bring you breakfast.

Despite the circumstances, as the days have passed, the big one has grown on you a little. Unlike his accomplice and despite his intimidating appearance, he's much more subdued and even polite towards you. He even pulls his companion -- Junkrat, he calls himself -- back into place every now and then. He was even kind enough to update you on the current situation in Parliament yesterday.

You've been here a while now, and although you assumed you were a hostage at first, it soon came to light that the situation wasn't that easy. When is it ever easy for you, honestly? You were travelling to Canberra, there was an explosion and you woke up in this very bed. It was another two days before Junkrat explained the situation to you. Or, at least their version of it. There was a planned attack on the rally you were travelling to speak at. You would have been killed. They'd intervened to save you.

You had questions, of course. You still do. They never answered them, and that was all the information you could really manage to get out of them. You don't know what will happen to you. You don't know if the Resistance will come to collect you, you don't know how Junkrat and the big one (who calls himself Roadhog) knew about the attack, and they definitely aren't telling you who they're working for. But they're feeding you, they haven't physically mistreated you and they've even made sure you have things to do -- crosswords and books, mostly, but there is a very old Gameboy in here, too.

Today, however, Roadhog doesn't come. You wait, and wait, and wait more. The silence and break in the morning ritual is incredibly unsettling. There's very little chance that it's an indication of anything good, and although you can hope that it means Junkrat has decided to be on breakfast duty this morning (which is, in the grand scale of things, a mild annoyance,) the feeling of dread in the air seems to be seeping in from the crack beneath the locked door.

And then it opens.

You were right to be suspicious. The figure on the other side isn't Roadhog, nor is it Junkrat, or even the woman they seem to carry on with. This person is new, and he doesn't fit in with the trio at all as far as appearances go. You sit completely still, your head held high, squaring your shoulders and trying to maintain your dignity. This isn't the first time you've had to mask unease in the face of uncertainty.

"Mornin', Darlin'," he says with a smirk, tilting his hat to you like some kind of cowboy. You suppose he looks like one, though. The whole thing is incredibly cheesy. "Sorry t' keep ya' waitin' so long." He steps inside, removing the hat from his head as he pulls the door closed behind him. You can feel every muscle in your body tensing up when the door closes. "'Spose ya' got a lotta' questions."

You're unsure if you should respond or not, and honestly, you're so busy keeping yourself together that you don't think you could formulate anything witty to say even if you tried to. This man is either going to hurt you or take you home, and you have to play this game very, very carefully if you want to survive either.

Realising he's not going to get an answer he gives a nod, pulling a chair from the other side of the room and dragging is across the metal floor to sit across from you. "Right, then. Fair. Ya' gonna do ya' job, act all regal n' keep up ya' act," he says as he takes a seat. "We all got a part t' play. I respect that."

"Is this an interrogation?" You ask, your voice flat.

A quick puff of air comes from his nose, a silent chuckle. "No, Ma'am, it ain't," he says. "I'm just sayin' that I respect ya' position'. Ain't gonna say I agree with it," he adds, "but I know ya' gotta act a certain way, keep th' illusion. I certainly ain't gonna fault ya' for that, Ms. Beaumont."

You shift a little. If this _is_ an interrogation, it's one of the stranger ones you've experienced. Some of his behaviours are familiar, though. He's trying to instil a trust in you. Some kind of camaraderie that he can play off whilst simultaneously challenging you -- an invitation for you to correct him and give him the information he wants by accident. "What 'illusion,' exactly?" You ask.

"Well," he shrugs, leaning back into his seat. "I don't doubt ya' ain't dedicated t' the cause ya' pushin'," he begins as he reaches into his front pocket, removing a case of cigarettes, "just find it mighty curious that a lady of such pomp n' circumstance would be th' leader of an anti-establishment cause, 'specially when that establishment's benefited her for so long... mind if I smoke?" He asks. You shake your head, and to your surprise he offers you the pack first. "I seen some vids of ya' sneakin' em, reckon' ya' must be missin' em by now."

Hesitantly, you relent, taking one from the pack only after you see him place between his own lips. He lights yours first. Must think he's real charming. "Pomp and circumstance?" You repeat.

He lights his own before gesturing to you. "Wouldn't know it lookin' at ya' _now,"_  he admits, "but I seen how ya' present ya'self before ya' big speeches n' rallies. Th' outfits, th' hair, th' lipstick," he shrugs. "Nothin' wrong with it, just reckon' it's curious that a well bred lady'd take up a cause for th' little guy like this. I mean, I seen it before, sure, but they all got ulterior motives." He's watching you carefully. He's trying to see if he can figure yours out from so much as a slip of your expression.

"Indeed," you take a drag from the cigarette, exhaling in a direction that's just close enough to his head to make him aware you could have blown it into his smug face. "I wonder what yours is."

The man smiles, nodding, as though he appreciates your little quip. "On that note, 'spose I should introduce myself. Name's Jesse McCree," he announces, extending his free hand -- one that you quickly notice is bionic. "I'm here on behalf of Overwatch. As are my associates, who you've been stayin' with th' last coupla' days."

You don't shake his hand. "It's been two weeks."

"You can thank your people fer' that one," he explains, withdrawing his hand once he notices your arms are crossing in front of your chest. "Was a nightmare t' get 'em t' work with us, n' workin' with us is th' only way t' guarantee ya' safety. I mean," he gives a snort of laughter, "Junkrat wasn't even really _tryin'_ n' he still got ya' in one shot. I wouldn't exactly call that havin' good security."

He's not wrong. The Resistance security force assigned to you is meant to be the best available to you, and you were taken from them in a matter of seconds. Capturing you wasn't just a display of their incompetence, but a display of Overwatch's abilities. "And what does Overwatch get out of this?" You ask. "The second Omnic Crisis in Russia seems more like something a big, multi-national body like that would be interested in. The political climate of Australia would seem much less pressing, surely."

"We've been gettin' some disturbin' reports," he explains, giving a shrug. "Heard rumours that ya' big ol' government's been reachin' out t' those Omnics out in the Wastes. Offerin' 'em some nice benefits in exchange fer' gettin' a little more aggressive, remindin' people they're there. Scarin' 'em into thinkin' they need the government they got."

You give a nod. The Rebellion, although non-violent at this stage, has been troubling for the current government. Unsettled, they've been doubling down on doing what they can to discredit you, to show force. If these allegations were true, it would mean they were effectively hiring Omnics to give themselves an enemy to protect the people from. "Unconfirmed at this stage," you add, "but it's certainly more and more accepted as an unconfirmed fact."

Jesse drops his cigarette onto the metal flooring of the room and grinds the heel of his boot against it. You settle to mash yours against the wall. "Yeah, well, we've confirmed it," he announces with a sigh. "Couple o' days research n' it was plain as day t' us."

"Unbelievable!" You exclaim with a shocked laugh. "They're honestly that hell-bent on suppressing the will of the people that--"

"They'd offer the Omnics more land n' more resources in exchange," he butts in. This silences you. "They're willin' t' give up everythin' that ain't a sanctioned farmin' district, resource distract or metropolitan area."

"That's..." you pause, trying to picture this in your head, visualising a map of metropolitan areas and farming and resource districts. "That's almost the entirety of the regional areas we have left," you conclude, your voice audibly dropped in volume. "That's hundreds of thousands of people displaced. The Omnics will turn it into more wasteland..." you realise you're shaking your head, but the picture in your mind is too distracting to correct your behaviour.

"Lotta' natural occurrin' resources that th' Omnics can use in these areas, too," he explains. "Give 'em enough leverage n' you're riskin' another Omnic uprisin' -- n' this time? Without all that land t' give ya' a buffer? Ain't no way ya' comin' out of it as well as ya' did th' first time."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" You ask suddenly, almost aggressively. "How do I know this isn't some kind of trick?"

McCree merely shrugs. "Ya' just gonna' have t' trust me." He waits a beat, watching your unsatisfied expression before breaking out into a laugh, shaking his head. "Come on, Darlin', I'm just messin' with ya'! I know ya' too smart fer' that." He rises from his seat. "I'm gonna give ya' some time t' get ya'self in order n' we're gonna take ya' back t' yer' people," he explains. "Ya' can hear it from 'em yourself. Hell, I'll even let ya' read th' documents on th' trip there if ya' want."

There's a silence. No matter what your opinion is, no matter what you want to do, it isn't like you have a choice. He's buttering you up now, sure, but if you refuse, he'll probably take you out of here by force. Your willingness to join him doesn't actually matter. "...I don't like you," are the words you finally settle for, watching as he rises from his seat.

Smirking, he places his hat back on his head, glancing over you. "'Fraid that's irrelevant." He turns, opening the door and walking out without another word, and once you're sure he's not going to surprise you by barging back in without warning, you all but leap to your feet.

Running to the bathroom, you splash water over your face, trying to wake yourself up, doing what you can to get clean. You don't have time to run a bath, and this will have to do. You pull the hair tie off your wrist and quickly secure your hair back, knowing the weather outside will be an adjustment and wanting to keep your hair off your neck. Your dress is a little torn and very dirty, but it's all you'll have. It will have to do, and if your people are really waiting for you, someone will have a change of clothes in hand -- lest the public see you like this.

Roadhog eventually enters, toast on a plate in one hand for you and a plastic bag in the other. The bag is full of your belongings -- all except your cellphone. "McCree's got it," he grunts when you question this. "You'll get it back when you're back in Sydney." He gives you a few moments to eat your toast, put your shoes on and re-pack your small handbag with the few contents left. Some lip balm -- which you're incredibly happy to have on hand now, -- lipstick, a compact mirror and your wallet. Once satisfied that you're ready, he gestures for you to follow, opening the door and leading you beyond it for the first time since your arrival.

During your stay, you can't say you've had any idea of where exactly you are. You figured it was a shack, maybe some kind of base. But it's apparent now -- this is an old bunker, probably from the Omnic Crisis, although it's definitely in a state of repair that leads you to suspect it might even be older than that. Roadhog leads you down a corridor and around the corner, all the floors and walls made of metal, the occasional light flickering above, a feint dripping sound from a place that's well out of sight. You eventually come to a larger space, some kind of common area, where the others wait. Junkrat is chewing on some toast, reading a data pad, looking up at you only to give a grunt. McCree leans against the wall, chatting away to what you assume was the woman who's voice you heard previously. She's incredibly intimidating -- tall, dirty, scarred and loud. She pays you little mind.

"Ready," Roadhog announces, voice muffled through his mask.

"'Bout time," Junkrat groans, dropping the remainder of his toast on a table top, sans plate. It's visibly burned. Charred. "We stickin' her on a train, or what?"

You watch McCree as he pushes himself off the wall, shaking his head. "'Fraid not. Next train don't come through here for a couple' days, n' I reckon' Ms Beaumont's feelin' pretty dicey 'bout stayin' here much longer." You say nothing as all eyes settle on you. If they expect you to be greatful for this at all, they're insane. "Derby here's offered to drive us t' Sydney."

"Fuck off!" Junkrat exclaims. The woman reaches over and smacks the back of his head, hard enough to make him cry out and jump in his seat. "Fuck was that for?!"

"Don't fuckin' swear so much!"

"It's a two day trip!" He insists.

McCree shakes his head. "Right. But if we wait 'fer a train, that's two days we gotta stay here _p_ _lus_ an extra day on the actual train." He glances to you quickly, and then back to Junkrat. "I'm puttin' my foot down, Junkrat. I'm sorry. I promised her people that we'd 'ave her back soon as possible, 'n I'm a man of my word."

"We'll take the Crush Bus, mate," Derby adds. "Been ages since we took it out. It'll be fun! 'Sides," she glances to McCree, a smirk on her face as she looks him up and down. "If I'm driving? Reckon' we can shave at least half a day off."

"That so?" He grins in return, something about the dip in his voice making you uneasy. Is he serious? You knew he was cheesy, and definitely manipulative... but a lecher? The next two days can't be over soon enough.

She turns, making her way towards another door in the area, glancing at him again as she passes him. "Let's just say that I know a good route when I see it." Roadhog audibly guffaws at this as she opens the door, gesturing for everyone else to follow her. Junkrat is nowhere near as amused, angrily twittering away to himself, almost barking as he leaves.

You look to McCree, who's focused his gaze on you. How long has he been staring at you? He tilts his head to the doorwar. "C'mon then," he instructs. "We'll have ya' back in ya' fancy jewels n finery in no time."

As long as it means getting away from him and getting back to work, he can make as much fun of you as he likes. You're the figurehead of a revolution, after all. Him? A cowboy wannabee, sleazy and stinking of smoke. You wonder as you pass him in the doorway: has he ever fought a day in his life for his beliefs, or does he just follow the orders of his bosses and his desire for what you assume is money? What could he even have to fight for?

And as you pass him, Jesse McCree wonders silently who the hell you think you are. Who are you to claim to be for the people when you spend all day lavishly dressed and primped and cared for while people like Junkrat and Derby live in the dirt and junk their way to survival? What could you possibly know about leading when you're very obviously a puppet, a pretty face to dress up an ugly revolution?

He knows one thing for certain given the way you scowl at him, however, and it's that you're not going to be happy when you find out your people have signed him on as your personal security detail.


	2. It's a Long Way to the Top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: swearing, smoking, reader being hit on grossly, Jesse being a dickhead again (he's really good at it)

At the very least, Jesse McCree is a man of his word. He lends you a datapad to read over the documents secured by Overwatch, all of which are incredibly damning. This is big stuff, it's... it's going to change everything. It's going to start the fire behind the movement.

He's even let you hang on to it. "Send some emails," he said when you offered to hand it back over, "let ya' people know you're on the way. Catch up on the news. There's been a bit." He wasn't wrong -- there's been an incredible amount of developments. The attack on the Union building you were meant to be speaking at was accredited to The Australian Patriot Front, a loyalist faction that's been your secondary opposition since day one. They haven't claimed responsibility, but why would they? They never own up to their violence when it happens. Usually they try to pass it on to 'Omnic spies' (if such things exist) or small extremist cells.

Honestly, though, this time? You can't even be sure it was the Patriot Front. Not if the things McCree's been saying have been entirely factual. He seems to think that the Government set up the attack, but you don't have any evidence. The documents about handing over land to Omnics only proves they're co-operating with the Omnics, nothing else.

Your people have been pretty straight forward with the public. The official story as to where you've been is that a 'specialist security force' has taken you to a safe location until all threats are cleared. No mention of Overwatch, although you can hardly say you're surprised. They don't exactly have the best reputation in Australia, what, given how they let the government hand a huge chunk of the country to Omnics on a silver platter. It's probably wise to not play your cards too early, either. A low profile is a good profile for any security group.

It's about half a day into the trip. McCree sits up front with Derby now, chatting away with her, glancing back every now and then as if to make sure that you're still where he left you. While the interior of the bus -- lovingly referred to by Derby as the 'Crush Bus' -- is comfortable compared to your previous accommodation, with some couches and even some bunks installed, it's still loaded with an array of weapons and explosives. You're not surprised. The exterior of the Crush Bus looks like something out of a zombie movie. Armoured to the teeth, Derby has taken the liberty of running down every stray Omnic that you've come across while charging through the endless stretches off off-road desert. Not so much as a dent to the bus.

You spend a portion of time after you've finished catching up trying to eavesdrop on whatever it is he's saying to her, but the engine is much too loud to be able to hear anything. Every now and then you can make out the tones of Junkrat's voice, or the deep bass of Roadhog, but the words aren't audible. They're all getting along so well. You suppose they have the same lifestyle, but you can't seem to stop thinking about what McCree had said to you before. About 'pomp and circumstance.' It's... bugging you.

Not to say that no one has ever accused you of such a thing before. It's definitely been brought up, been used to attack you. But those are people who have... known at least a little about you. McCree? Who does he think he is? He's as good as an outsider to this entire situation. The insinuation, though, that you were 'playing a part' is new. Especially coming from someone who seems to think they're a cowboy. And what would he know about your role? Was he there when Eric separated from Parliament to work with the people? Was he there when Eric campaigned and fought for the common man? When Eric gave his life for it? McCree wasn't there to pick up the pieces. It was you.

As though he knows what you're thinking, he stands from his seat and makes his way down the length of the bus, towards where you sit on one of the couches. You aren't entirely sure why until you realise he's got a packet of cigarettes in his hand. He picks up an empty can of beer from a counter as he passes, placing it on the floor between you as he sits on the other end of the couch. "So," he begins, popping a cigarette behind his ear before offering you the opened pack. "You gonna start gettin' serious when ya' get back?"

You take a cigarette and raise an eyebrow, watching as he places the packet back in his front pocket. "Excuse me?" You ask.

McCree takes the cigarette from behind his ear, pops it between his lips and lights it, before offering to light yours. Instead, you take the lighter from his hand, doing it yourself. You don't want him to think you're falling for his charms even for a second. "About ya' campaign," he replies. "Reckon' if ya' gonna organise better, ya' ain't gonna get another push like these documents. Not for a long time."

"And what would you propose we 'organise?'" You ask, handing his lighter back and taking a long, deep drag.

"The entire goddamn thing," he chuckles. "I mean, sure. Ya' got ya' political party," he explains. "The Australian Liberation Party? Good stuff. But who ya' got backin' ya?" He asks.

It takes you a moment to realise his question wasn't a rhetorical or sarcastic one. "Factions that have thrown us their support?" You take a moment to recall all of them. "Australian Revolutionary Front, The People's Democracy League, The Rebellion Initiative, The Anti-Dictator Coalition, The Australian League of Independents, The United People's-"

"Exactly," he cuts in. "What you got here is a big party that's got the support of all these little groups," he explains. "And that's good. I reckon' it's a start. But it's a mess. It's all separated. There ain't no sense of..." He tilts his head from side to side. "Reckon' ya'll need to make it about bein' part of the bigger picture. Bring 'em all in t'gether."

Even though you desperately don't want to agree with him, his idea has some merit. "Like Overwatch?" You ask, a venom in your voice, although only a slight one.

"'Spose ya' could compare it t' that," he admits with a shrug. "We were all gettin' round on our own 'till Overwatch brought us t'gether. Twice, in fact."

"If I did't know better, I'd think you were telling me how to do my job."

He takes a drag on his cigarette, eyeing you carefully. "I do, at the end of the day, work fer' Overwatch," he says. "Your success is... a bit of an investment t' us."

"How many political revolutions have you been the face of?" You ask suddenly, watching him expectantly. "Or, well, involved in. Let's start there."

He shoots you a quick glance, and you're not sure if it's because you've got to him a little, taken him off guard or because he can just sense the sudden tension in the air the same way you can. "Fought in my share," he finally answers after a moment. "King's Row, the securing of Numbani, spent a good few months fightin' in--"

"No," you cut in. "I'm not talking about times you joined in a battle because Overwatch told you to. I want to know if you've ever joined in some kind of political uprising or revolution because you _wanted_ to. Because you _believed_ in it."

Jesse's mind immediately turns to Zarya. She's a prime example of everything he's not. She gave up her career and her dreams to protect her country because it was what she believed in. Everything Zarya does for Overwatch, she does to aid a cause even bigger than their own. McCree, in comparison, was forcefully recruited to Overwatch. He only stuck with it because he was he didn't want to go to prison, and later on because he was avoiding what he'd done to his wife... "Can't say that politics was ever my thing, no."

"Well," you exhale, "how about I handle the politics and handle..." you look him up and down dramatically. "You can handle the next corral we come across. How about that?"

"Now, look here, missy," he begins, reaching down and dropping his finished cigarette into the beer can. "I understand that this whole thing was a slight inconvenience t' ya', but I ain't seein' no reason for all this hostility when I'm jus' tryna' help ya'."

You roll your eyes, realising you still have at least half of your cigarette to finish. How much does he take in when he inhales? "Help me?" You repeat. "I know I'm a woman, and this may come as a shock to you, but my tiny, feminine brain doesn't need help when it comes to things I already completely understand -- especially from someone with zero experience."

McCree scoffs. "This ain't got nothin' t' do with ya' bein' a lady!" He insists. "I might not have political experience, strictly speakin', but I know plenty 'bout people. In fact, I'm kinda' an expert in it."

"You're not doing a lot to convince me."

"Darlin," he begins, leaning in a little, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping in volume. "You don't know th' first thing 'bout the kind of experience I've had in my field, but let me assure ya' that when it comes t' charmin' folk?" He quickly glances to one of the bunks. "I could 'ave ya' in that there bunk in five minutes. Ten if I really wanted t' get th' best outta' ya. Charmin' people's kinda' my job."

You're not even sure how to best describe the expression you make, but it's some kind of combination of shock, disgust and a cringe. "You," you growl, "are disgusting."

He leans back, smirking to himself and shaking his head as you use this opportunity to dip down and drop your own cigarette butt into the beer can. "Don't worry. I can assure ya' that it is th' absolute last thing on my mind."

"Good." You cross your arms and scoot back a little, just to create some extra distance from him. "Because I don't think your commander back at Overwatch would be happy to hear about what you just said to me."

"I'm sure they wouldn't, but that ain't my concern," he says with a shrug, finally deciding to stand, a slight tone of strain in his voice as he gets off the couch. "Frankly, you're 'bout as far from my idea of 'attractive' as a lady can get."

You exhale and watch as he walks away without another word, taking a seat beside Derby again. He glances back to you, but if he was expecting to see a lock of shock or pain on your face, he's in for disappointment -- you've already returned your attention to the datapad. How absolutely disgusting. Any remnant of likeability that he may have carried has vanished, and where Junkrat and Roadhog have been necessary evils in your life, whatever McCree might have to offer is absolutely not worth the cost of having to be around him at all.

Why would you even care if he finds you attractive or not? Why would he think that's an insult? What, do you need his validation? Him? Jesse McCree? The grown man who traverses around in a stupid cowboy hat and spurs like he's in a movie and not a serious political situation? Who flirts with Junkrat's sister right in front of him, and would consider bedding you to be some kind of proof of his expertise in manipulation? Someone who would manipulate a person into sleeping with them at all? If he thinks you would find any value in his opinion about you, he's dumber than you initially thought.

What angers you the most, however, is what a strong attempt it was. You don't like it, and you highly doubt that he could get you into bed even if the fate of he nation depended on you agreeing to it -- but you could almost believe that his expertise is manipulating people. It's probably why they've sent him on this mission. Knowing your people, he would have had to be a very slick negotiator to get them to agree to any kind of cooperation with what is, really, an international police group with a less than stellar track record. Logically speaking, he's not the worst person to have on your side of this political situation -- but having him around at all is less than comfortable. The good thing, you suppose, is that you've spotted it early. You know, now. You're aware, and ready for when he attempts it on you. He revealed it too early. A rookie mistake, really.

McCree nods along with Derby's story about her and Junkrat's first foray into car theft, but he's only half listening. Sure, a part of him feels pretty pleased with that little burn he left with you, but he knows better than that. It's... worrying. You're trouble, yes, and he suspected you'd be difficult for him to work with. But you're bringing out a venom in him that he hasn't had for years, not since he left Reyes. In fact, Reyes was the last person to really inspire that side of him. He'd encouraged it. Said it was necessary for how they did things in Blackwatch. Jesse had believed him until not long after he left, until he connected with June's mother again and realised that leaving her so soon was...

He tries to take his mind off it. It's just frustration, he decides. You're not only difficult, but you're intelligent. Not in a book-smart way, or even a street-smart way. No, you have a very, very formidable level of emotional intelligence. He's known you for barely a full day and you're already trying to exploit information out of him, trying to find a weakness to really sink into and make sting. If you're doing this intentionally or not doesn't matter. He has to be on the defensive now, because you're already finding ways to get to him, ways to exploit those weak points and bring out that toxic behaviour. He'd be happy to just call you a self-entitled snob and leave it, but that ability to hook into him so quickly is concerning. He makes a note to be more careful. Every time he slips, he gives you more ammunition to make things harder. He has half a mind to return to the couch and apologise to you, but he knows you won't accept it. God, if you _do_ make a report and June's Mother catches wind of what he said to you? He's in for the most savage voice mail he's ever received.

McCree doesn't approach you again, leaving you alone entirely, not even joining Junkrat and Roadhog when they sit with you to eat. Canned beans, canned spaghetti and some canned tuna are on the menu tonight. Enough to keep you satiated until you come to the next town and can pick up something a little more substantial.

"So," Junkrat finally says, dropping his empty can of beans on the floor of the bus like it's of no consequence to him. "Hope ya' don't, like, take it personally."

"Take what personally?" You ask.

"Us grabbin' ya'," he replies with a shrug. "And lockin' ya' up. And takin ya' stuff. Just doin' me job, love. Actually reckon' you're a top bird."

Your first instinct is to challenge the last part of his sentence, but you know better. "Is that so?"

He nods enthusiastically, scratching at his nose with a sudden and frantic speed as he speaks. "Seen ya' on the telly, havin' a go at those fuckwits in Canberra," he explains. "They do my fuckin' head in, that lot. They fuckin' drove us into the fuckin' wastes and they're still tryna' find ways to fuck the little guy over. So when I seen ya' callin' that lot out on it? Tellin' 'em all t' fuck off? Fuckin' ay, love. Reckon' a lotta' people'll who're doin' it fuckin' rough'll be happy when this is over an we win this."

You smile at this. _'We.'_ Not 'you,' not 'your people.' We. It's... well, it's important to you. Junkrat gets it, it seems. He can see the bigger picture.

It's at this moment that you realise that, as much as you hate to admit it, maybe what McCree suggested holds a little weight. He's still garbage, but he's smart garbage. If the idea of the bigger picture could bring someone like Junkrat around, maybe it can bring everyone together. Maybe it can light the fire underneath the movement.

It's also the moment that the sound of metal on metal screeches through the bus, Junkrat leaping to his feet, Roadhog giving a loud grunt. The bus begins to jostle about, bumping and rocking, impact after impact hitting the walls as you stumble off the couch and hold onto the walls for support. "What's going on?!" You shout over the noise, slowly and steadily making your way to the front of the bus where the only view outside is.

You grip on to one of the seats for support as you realise what's happening. The Crush Bus is mowing down Omnic after Omnic as it pushes through what seems to be a sea of them. "What in the actual fuck?!" Derby shouts. "This is _fucked!_ "

"Thought you said there were Omnics out this way," Jesse says.

Derby shakes her head, switching gears as she pushes through another four or five at a time. "Yeah, but not this fuckin' many," she explains. "Fuckin' hell, I've never seen this many 'round here! You seein' this, Jamie?!"

Junkrat releases a maniacal cackle. "Can I get on the roof?" He asks her.

"Fuck off," Derby scoffs.

"Please?" He asks, "pretty, pretty please? I just wanna launch a _couple_ of bombs at 'em. Come oooonnnnnn!"

Jesse exhales, short and sharp, losing his patience. "Sit down, Junkrat." Junkrat gives a disappointed and dramatic groan. "I'm assumin' this ain't good?"

"No," you finally pipe up. "This many in one place? Outside of Omnic territory?" You shake your head, trying your best to not be frightened by the sheer number of Omnics. "This isn't normal."

"Yeah," Derby agrees. "You'd reckon' they'd have half the fuckin' army out here, ay?"

You silently nod your head in agreement. "They aren't even firing at us," you observe.

The bus gives a roar as Derby drives it over another pile of Omnics, and although the bus is holding up fine, it's still unnerving. "Usually they're nippy little buggers. This is fuckin' _weird,_ mate."

"They're just kind of..." you trail off for a moment, watching one bump into another in the distance, knocking it over. "Wandering aimlessly." You look to McCree, who's already sending video of this to someone who you assume is Overwatch.

Eventually, you pass through the ocean of Omnics, everyone eerily quiet, tension in the air. Even though they were wandering aimlessly and not hostile, it was still frightening. All it would take would be one flick of a switch and they would have been in serious trouble -- as McCree points out to whoever he's speaking to on the phone. He turns down additional Overwatch personnel. "Reckon' we should see how this plays out," he says. "Somethin' real suspicious 'bout an Omnic that ain't shootin' at somethin'."

When he ends the video call, the screen on his phone reverts to its home page. There's a photo of a woman, a man and a baby. Locks his phone immediately. You wonder who they are. Probably some poor woman who had a baby to him and her new partner, given how he behaves.

As subtle as you thought you were, McCree knows you saw the photo. He lights a cigarette, mentally preparing himself for when you'll inevitably try to use it against him in one of your little duels. He doesn't offer you a cigarette this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who jumped on the bus with me for this one!  
> Things I have planned include:  
> \- A pub visit  
> \- Rousing speeches  
> \- McCree putting on a suit and his best charm for a political ball/fundraiser  
> -Genji getting involved  
> -WHO IS ERIC?!  
> -a honhonhonhon  
> -A VERY ANGRY ANA ON THE PHONE  
> -Something something something to do with June's mother  
> -ROADHOG AND JUNKRAT GETTING LIKE _SUPER_ INTO POLITICAL DISCOURSE


	3. Cheap Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Drinking, swearing, shooey's, fuckin' aye mate, smoking, sexual references

The little town of Longreach is good for two things, according to Derby. The first thing it's good for is sausage rolls. Apparently the sausage rolls the lady makes at the bakery here are second to none. The second, and least surprising, is the pub.

The Longreach Hotel is a fine stop for your group, especially those of you who prefer the idea of sleeping in a room to sleeping in a bunk on the bus. You've learned a lot about Roadhog's surprising amount of decorum, but you still highly doubt the bedding in those bunks have ever been washed. They've only got two rooms available, but, to McCree's credit, he insists that you and Derby take them while the rest sleep in the Crush Bus. At first, you think this suspicious, but later on you spot him sliding a drink to a smirking Derby and realize that McCree has absolutely no intention of returning to the bus tonight.

Still, there's little to complain about. As far as pubs go, this definitely isn't the worst you've visited. While any food is an improvement compared to the canned beans you'd been eating on the Crush Bus, the chicken parma is actually one of the better ones you've had. You're able to eat in relative peace, too. While the odd patron has recognized you, you seem to go mostly unnoticed. You're pretty sure this has a lot to do with the fact you're completely without makeup or any of your usual attire, though.

Junkrat and Roadhog are seem to have effortlessly fit in with the locals. You've heard stories about junkers not being fully accepted in some places, but it seems Longreach isn't one of them. Junkrat leans against the bar, a can of beer in hand as he watches Roadhog toss darts into a dart board. No sign of Derby and McCree, though, and you can probably guess where they might be. Part of you wants to be disappointed in Derby, at least, but you can't say you're surprised.

When the waitress returns to clear your table, she replaces your plate with another beer. "On the house," she says quietly and with a smile. "Love your work." She shoots you a wink and returns to the kitchen, leaving you alone again with the beer. It's actually been a while since you've been in an honest to god pub like this. Eric used to love coming to them, mixing with his constituents. You leave your table, taking your beer with you, deciding to take a look around to see if you can find a TV showing the news as opposed to the football.

You pass through a few rooms in your search. The main bar is playing the football match as well, and the second dining room's TV is set to some kind of music video channel. Eventually, as you continue to wander, you catch the scent of cigarette smoke and the sudden need creeps up on you. You haven't thought to buy your own yet, and while you're sure the bar sells them, you might find a TV with a news station wherever the smell is coming from. Or, at least, that's how you justify it to yourself, anyway.

The scent leads you into a room that's noticeably dimmer than the others, a pool table in the center, lounge chairs lining the walls of the room, one of them occupied by McCree, who's half way through a cigarette as he watches the television mounted to the wall. He shoots you a glance, enough to communicate that he's noticed your presence, but that's all. Unsure how to go exactly about breaking the silence, you fix your attention to the news report. Omnic sightings off the borders of sanctioned farm land. It's something that happens from time to time, sure, but it's unnerving given what you passed through on the way in.

You've caught the tail end of the evening news, though. The reporters begin to sign off and you find yourself running your hands over the velvet of the pool table. It's definitely seen better days, that's for sure. The fabric is peppered with cigarette and beer stains, and the wood paneling on the sides is very well worn. "You play?" he asks suddenly, causing you to flinch a little, firing your gaze on him to find him rising from his seat.

"Not professionally or anything, no."

McCree chuckles, coming to stand beside you and offering you his pack of cigarettes. "Shame," he muses as you remove one from the deck, "reckon' ya' got th' makins' of a real pool shark far as ya' personality goes."

You pop the cigarette in between your lips, but before you can reach for it, he's already lighting it. You thin your eyes a little, totally aware that this is a small win for him, no matter how he might try and disguise it as 'southern charm.' You step back, just a little, to create distance as you take the first drag. "I'll let you know if my political career falls through," you finally reply.

He shrugs, reaching into his pocket and rummaging for something, before leaning down a little and placing what you can now presume is a coin into the slot of the pool table. With a loud clunk, the each one of the balls drops down from the insides of the table and into a small panel beneath, where he begins to move them two by two onto the table. "Havin' the personality is one thing," he explains, taking the hollow, plastic triangle from a hook on the wall, "the actual skill is another."

You know exactly what he's doing. He's challenging you, appealing to your ego so that you're obligated to play. He's trying to trick you into giving him more time to manipulate you. ...And it's absolutely working, because he has no idea how much time you spent playing pool with Eric, and you're about to absolutely wipe the floor with his smug face. He arranges the balls into the triangle, lifting the plastic away when they're in formation. "Alright, then," you exhale, moving to the wall and taking two pool cues from the rack.

"You seem confident," he says as you toss him a cue. "Reckon' we should make this interestin'." You raise an eyebrow in response as he places the cue ball onto the table. "For every ball I sink, I get t' ask ya' a question n' you gotta' answer. N' every time you sink a ball, you get th' same of me."

It's such a brazen attempt to get information out of you, you think, and for a second you wonder why he's be so obvious, but then it dawns on you -- he's probably just as aware of you as you are of him. He also probably greatly underestimates how much pool you've played before. "Alright," you agree.

McCree gestures to the table. "Ladies first," he offers. You roll your eyes, taking position and making your first shot. The cue hits the triangle with a clank and the balls separate. Unfortunately, none of them sink.

He shrugs, taking his turn, taking aim from the other side of the table and sinking a ball with ease. "How'd ya' meet Mr Beaumont?" He asks.

An odd question, but not too personal -- although you're surprised he doesn't already know, considering how easy to find that out is. A simple internet search and you can get the entire story of your relationship. The public facing side, at least. "University," you reply. "We had a class together and were assigned to a group project with each other."

Nodding, he leans back over the table and sinks another ball. "What class?"

"Political History," you reply.

"Awfully fitting," he chuckles. He takes a shot, but the cue fails to knock the ball into a pocket. It's your turn.

You take aim again and sink the ball with little effort. "How'd you lose that arm?"

He laughs, raising his eyebrows, a little surprise in his eyes. "Wow, just goin' straight fer' the real questions, ain't ya?" He shakes his head, glancing to the metal arm for a moment. "Train robbery. Job went wrong, whole carriage blew apart. Woke up in an Overwatch hospital with a replacement ready if I was willin' t' sign up."

You blink. "Train robbery?" You repeat. He nods, gesturing to the table, encouraging you to take your next shot. Although a little distracted, you sink another ball, already knowing exactly what you want to ask. "Why did Overwatch sign you up if you were a criminal?"

"The majority of _that_ answer's classified," he says, smirking, almost a little proud of that. "What I _can_ tell ya, though, is that I woulda' gone t' prison if I'd refused."

You exhale, rolling your eyes. "Bet that was difficult." Your voice is dripping with sarcasm.

"More than you'll ever know, Darlin'." He smiles as he says this, knowing perfectly well that you already _don't_ like him calling you that. Reacting verbally would give him what he wants, though. You exhale, trying to bounce your shot off the side of the table, but it misses the mark. "My turn," he announces, leaning over and taking a shot that you've accidentally lined up for him. He sinks a ball. "You seein' anyone at th' moment?"

"You're kidding." You stare at him in disbelief. The mere gall of that question. Eric only died a year ago.

McCree merely shrugs at your expression. "Somethin' Overwatch gotta' know. Security."

"No," you spit. "No, I'm not seeing anyone, given that my husband was just murdered."

"Been, what, over a year?" He asks. "People move on a lot faster than that." He takes the shot and misses. "Sides, I hear there was trouble in paradise." He shoots you a grin that's downright devilish. He's heard the rumours.

You tense your jaw, looking to the pool table again. "You missed." He gestures to the table again and you take a shot. The ball sinks. There's few left to go, and you're incredibly determined to beat him. "Where are you really from?" You ask. "Because I don't believe you're a cowboy at all."

"Town called Little Justice," he replies casually. "Ya' can look it up if ya' want. Bit of a ghost town now, though."

With another clank, another ball drops into a pocket. It's looking more and more like you're going to beat him. "Who are those people on your phone wallpaper?"

He blinks, pausing and taking a breath. "Good friends."

Another ball sinks into a pocket. "How do you know them?"

He crosses his arms. "Now, why do ya' wanna' know that?" He asks.

"You asked me a deeply personal question. Now it's my turn." You smile, crossing your arms, feeling a little victorious. You can see his discomfort. It's well-hidden, sure, but it's visible. McCree is never a man to shy away from making eye contact, but suddenly he's fixated downwards, at the legs of the pool table. His arms are crossed, lips a little pursed, and although you aren't sure, it looks a little like he's sucking at his teeth. He's thinking. Probably spinning a lie, or at least trying to manipulate the truth. It doesn't matter -- his reluctance to tell you is... more telling than anything he might have to say. Whoever those three are, they're a sensitive subject. Something he's not willing to share. Maybe he's even protective of them.

He inhales deeply and you ready yourself to decipher whatever kind of answer he has for you, but you're both interrupted. "Oi!" Derby calls into the room, leaning into the doorway, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. "You," she begins, pointing to McCree, "said you'd come do a shoey with me. The boys wanna see a yank do one, the bloke behind the bar's shouting us."

McCree's eyes dart between yourself and Derby, a grin flourishing. "Why, I do apologise," he says, resting his pool cue against the table. "I got a little wrapped up here, but I ain't one t' break a promise." He nods to you and begins to make his way to Derby.

Is he serious? He's just going to walk away? He has to be kidding. "Are you for real?" You ask suddenly, gesturing to the pool table when he turns to look at you as you protest. "We aren't finished here!"

"Now, now, Mrs Beaumont," he all but purrs, glancing to Derby, making sure she's witnessing as he switches his charm back on. "There's plenty o' me t' go 'round. We can settle this later, but I did promise this lovely lady here that I'd..." He pauses. "What's is it again?" He asks.

"A shoey," Derby repeats. "Ya' know, when you skull a beer outta' a shoe."

"Ah," he laughs. "That's right. You were tellin' me all about it on the bus." With that, he smirks, tilting his hat towards you and leaving with Derby. You remain entirely stationary, and while you're aware that you're almost grinding your teeth in frustration, it isn't exactly high on your priorities. This is infuriating, and that alone seems to amplify what you're feeling because you _shouldn't_ care about this at all. And yet, somehow, you do. Maybe it's because trying to work him out is a welcome distraction, even though at the end of the day, Jesse McCree is an asshole.

You consider tossing the cue onto the table and leaving in a huff, but you can't help yourself from placing the rest of the balls into pockets and placing the cues back onto the rack. He's so... unsettling. You have spent an inordinate amount of time dealing with men trying to get under your skin -- politicians, journalists, men on your own staff -- but McCree? He doesn't just get under your skin. He seems to hook his way in there and nest. You walk back through the pub, ignoring the crowd that's gathered as Derby throws back a drink from inside a shoe, and climb the stairs that lead to the rooms.

The room is standard for a pub. The interior is well worn, the wallpaper chipped and flaking here and there, and the carpet has worn-out patches to it. Still, though, the bed is clean and a lot more comfortable than the bunks in the Crush Bus. You can hear the rowdy shouting and cheering from downstairs, no doubt because McCree has successfully drank his first shoey. God, he's the worst. You can't wait until you get back to Sydney, where you can assume your Committee will take one look at his ridiculous Cowboy getup and ignore his antics completely. Maybe he'll go away, then. Maybe Overwatch will send someone else if you request it. Surely they must have someone a bit more professional, a bit less manipulative and...

You hear Derby's laugh from outside the door, McCree's joining her before a door slams. Maybe they'll send someone less lecherous. You give an audible sigh, as though someone is there to listen, and head for the small, worn out en-suite, grabbing the guest towel from the top of the small vanity as you pass it. At the very least, you'll be clean and refreshed for the remainder of the trip tomorrow. You turn on the water, the pipes giving a squeal, and begin to undress.

Once disrobed, you carefully stick your arm in the shower, feeling for temperature before you step in. The water is still cold, but after about a minute it finally begins to warm and you turn on the cold water to bring the temperature down. You hear a thud from the next room as you step inside, followed by Derby's familiar cackle. Maybe, you think as you wet your hair, Derby isn't having sex with McCree. Maybe she's killing him in there. That would be nice. Well, not nice. Derby would probably go to jail and Overwatch probably wouldn't want to help anymore if you killed their most insufferable agent, but it'd be a load off your mind, anyway.

You squeeze some of the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo into your hand and begin to lather it up in your hair, which, honestly, feels a little heavenly right now. Part of you thinks you should be happy for Derby, at least. You can't see what she sees in him, given how no-nonsense she is and how full of shit McCree is, but at least she's having a good time. You wonder if he's even any good in bed...

Urgh. No. Scrunching up your face you begin to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, trying to cleanse the thought with it. No, no, no. You don't even want to picture that, that sweaty, middle aged clown of a man looming over you and probably... you don't know. But you can guess he probably says dumb things like 'yeehaw' during sex which is enough to make you want to intervene for poor Derby. Then again, from what you know of Derby, she's probably going to break him. Maybe he'll quiet down a little after this. You can only hope so.

You finish washing off, another bang coming from next door as you step out of the shower. They'd better not be this loud all night. God, imagine if Junkrat was in here. She's his sister, isn't she? Isn't he mad about this? Will he be mad about this? You hope so. It'll be an interesting morning at least. Maybe Roadhog will intervene -- you've decided as the trip's progressed that you like him more and more. Maybe you can ask Overwatch to give him more of a full time roll and take back McCree so you don't have to deal with him.

Dried off and clad in an oversized t-shirt you bought from a petrol station (featuring a wonderful design of a topless woman on a flaming motorcycle,) you climb into the bed and block out the occasional muffled squeak from the next room. Thankfully, you're so exhausted that it's nowhere near enough to keep you awake.

You dream about the horde of Omnics. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have like zero idea how pool works and ive only ever played it with a dude who was using it to hit on me so~


	4. Choirgirl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Sexual suggestions, swearing, media frenzies, Melbourne being better than Sydney

You can see it -- Sydney. It's barricaded and guarded outer-district limits are, for once, a wonderful sight. As you pass through them, you could jump off the bus and kiss the guards, even though they're technically government employees and probably wouldn't enjoy the experience.

The trip from Longreach was long but otherwise uneventful. The morning after you rested at the pub, you were greeted by quite the commotion in the carpark. Junkrat was shouting something at McCree about his sister, of course, but before McCree could react or Roadhog could pull him back, Derby had him on the ground with his face pushed into the dirt. It's pretty apparent that while Junkrat has the bark, Derby has the bite of the duo. The rest of the trip for Junkrat was spent sulking and nursing what looked like a broken nose. "It's alright, love," he said at one point when you audibly rolled your eyes at something McCree had called down the bus to you. "I reckon' he's an asshole, too. If Derby wasn't on this bus I'd fuckin'-"

"What'd ya' fuckin' say, you little shit?!" She'd screamed from the driver's seat. Junkrat chose not to respond, and Roadhog merely chuckled to himself.

The further you drive into Sydney, the more the city builds up around you. Honestly, it's far from your favourite place. You only moved here once you married Eric, and learned quickly that despite the glamorous coat of paint, Sydney had more problems than your home city of Melbourne. Much more. _Countless_ more. Melbourne may as well be a different country, honestly. If Melbourne is Australia's last bastion of culture, art and humanity, Sydney is Australia's last bastion of greed and exploitation. It's the money making machine that organises and runs what's left of the country, and it's so good at it that it couldn't hide it if it wanted to.

As you come closer and closer to your headquarters, the discount stores and boarded up businesses begin to vanish, replaced by upscale fashion houses, cafes and apartment buildings. You can see some people turn to get a second look at the Crush Bus, which isn't anything like the quiet hybrids that tend to take up the roads, and you're suddenly reminded of what an entrance you're making. Your Committee will certainly be... Well, they'll be something.

You pull up in front of the party headquarters, the building already surrounded with reporters. Excellent. You'd be shocked, even angry, but you can't be because you'd somewhat expected this. "How in the hell did they know you'd be showin' up here?!" McCree asks, peering out one of the few uncovered windows as you take refuge in a bunk out of sight. "We kept this all confidential!"

"Cromwell," you exhale. "My Deputy. He's big on publicity." You pause, hearing the media outside already shouting your name, shouting questions at the side of the bus, even though they can't see you. "He loves a good press leak, alright." With a final exhale, you rise, shrugging and trying to keep the promise of using your own shampoo and bodywash again in mind, trying to stay motivated. "Well, come on. Might as well get this over with."

You take a single step, but McCree stops you, stepping directly in front of you and intercepting. "Hold on, now," he says in a way that's... you don't want to describe it as a 'coo.' You refuse to. He reaches over, taking the serape he'd been wearing when you first met from where he'd discarded it on the bunk above you, and folds it in half. He then carefully draps it over your head, sort of like a scarf. "There ya' go, reckon' that should be 'nuff t' keep ya' face all hidden," he says, tugging the front down a bit. "Can't have 'em seein' ya lookin' less than perfect, can we?"

"Um..." He's caught you off guard, honestly. He's been an absolute nightmare to deal with, but this? This is genuinely kind of him, and not something he has to offer you. You can just as well charge past all those cameras fully visible and let them get photos of you looking awful. In fact, you were fully intending to, because you hadn't even thought about it. "Thank you." The serape smells like... smoke. Not cigarette smoke, though, like you'd expect. Real smoke. Woodsmoke.

McCree doesn't acknowledge your thanks, though, turning to Junkrat and Roadhog. "Hog?" He asks. "You clear a path for us. We'll go through behind ya'." Roadhog gives a loud, low grunt of acknowledgement -- although it sounds more like a snort. "Junkrat? You take her left, I'll take her right and guide her through." Junkrat gives a nod. "And Derby?" McCree pauses, shooting her a look. You know that look. So does she, given the way she raises her eyebrow at him as she twists in her seat to face him. "You give 'em a scare."

And so, you line up, Roadhog standing at the door, followed by Junkrat, with you and McCree at the end. You pull down the serape as far as you can without looking 100% of your sight, keeping just enough to see the floor below -- but the feel of McCree's arm snaking around you and his hand coming to rest on the small of your back sends a shiver up your spine -- and it is _not_ a good one. You open your mouth to protest, but before you can even flinch, the door is opened and it's go time.

Roadhog shoves about five or six reporters out of the way before the rest take a hint and step back to form a path. Junkrat steps out, waiting for you and McCree, and the two hurry you inside, shielding you from the press. It's incredibly noisy, and among the clicks of cameras you can hear an array of questions being shouted at you. "Where did you go?" "Will you be stepping down from your position?" "Are the attacks on you related to your husband?" "Will you be running in the Federal Election next year?"

And then it happens -- all the shouting is drowned out by the roar of an engine followed by the loudest horn you think you've ever heard. People scream, and you can't see what's happening but it's enough for some to move aside. Whatever the case, it works, distracting many of them so you have more room to push through to the doors.

The doors close behind you once you're inside, staff members drawing curtains frantically and scurrying around to guide you to the elevator. Phones are ringing off the hook at the lobby reception desk, but soon enough that noise is gone, too. You make it to the elevator, and once the doors are closed, you push back the serape from your face. There's five of you in the elevator, and it's a little crowded, but it's enough space to step away from McCree so that he's not touching you anymore. "Here," you say, handing him the serape, "thanks for that. I didn't even think about it."

It's then that the fifth person in the elevator pipes up -- where you'd expected Derby stands a small woman in a suit, a smile on her face, if not one that looks a little overwhelmed. "It's so good to see you in one piece, Ms Beaumont," she says. You recognise her as one of the Committee PAs. "Mr Cromwell has your team ready for you."

"My team?" You repeat. Your 'team' is a name given to the staff who are in charge of your presentation; your stylists, hairdressers and makeup artists. "That's very thoughtful," you say, the doors opening to the main offices and rooms with a bell, "but I have some very important matters to discuss with the Committee. If you could ask Mr Cromwell to call an emergency meeting--"

"The Committee is already here," she assures you with a smile. Suddenly, it's her guiding you along now, not McCree. "Mr McCree has kept them all up to speed, what's important right now is getting you ready for your press conference."

"Press... w-what?!" You're suddenly feeling very overwhelmed, less 'guided' and more 'herded' as you realise that someone else has intercepted the others. It's just you and the PA now as she walks you into one of the rooms you tend to use for press junkets. It's actually a refurbished hotel suite (in fact, the building itself is a refurbished and re-purposed hotel that saved Eric a lot of money when he founded the party,) but it's often been used as a sort of dressing room or even temporary accommodation for guests of the party.

"Press conference," she repeats. "For your statement about your absence?" She stops at the door of the bathroom, giving you a sympathetic smile. "You must be exhausted. Mr Cromwell has it all handled though, don't worry." She opens the door for you and gestures for you to step inside. Time to have a quick shower.

A press conference? Cromwell has to be kidding. The man loves the press, yes, and it's one of the reasons Eric loved having him on the Committee for so long. In fact, if not for Cromwell, you wouldn't be the current head of the party. He was the one who pushed for you, who pushed the idea of you being Eric's spiritual successor onto the Committee. But calling a press conference after you've been, for all intents and purposes, essentially kidnapped? Not even giving you a day to prep?

You keep the shower short, stepping out and drying off quickly, wanting to get this over with so you can speak to the Committee as soon as possible. Cromwell has, no doubt, scripted a statement for you to make. On one hand, you hate how much control he tries to take over how you present yourself in public, but on the other? It's one less thing you have to worry about right now.

Sufficiently dried off, but your hair still damp, you slip into a robe and step out into the room where the team waits for you, surrounding a chair that sits in front of a vanity. It's nice to see them, really. Even if you feel like this is getting in the way of more important manners like the _horde of Omnics_ you stumbled across on the way here, they're a familiarity that you missed while holed up in that old bunker. You tell them what you feel is safe to tell them, and then they begin to fill you in on what you missed while you were gone -- the majority of their interests in this regard aren't political, though. It's all gossip and about their personal lives. It's a breath of fresh air, really.

Your hair and makeup ready, your stylist shows you your outfit. "What do you think?" He asks. "I was thinking 'hard-ass bitch who's 200% done with everyone and everything and ready to get shit done.'" He's not wrong. The outfit is pretty straight forward in that respect. Classic, strong, yet something about it is on the edge of professional and... alluring. And it gives you an idea.

"I like this," you muse, a smile on your face. "Except the shoes." You pause, shooting him a playful smile. "Got anything higher?"

* * *

Anton Cromwell isn't happy with the news that McCree has laid out for him, and McCree is learning very quickly that this is a man who prefers to stick to a plan. "Look, Mr Cromwell," he begins, "I ain't sayin' that we gotta' deal with this t'day. But it's alarmin'. N' given' what we know 'bout the Government agreements with the Omnics, Overwatch considers this t' be of top priority."

"Then they can deal with it." Cromwell pauses, centring himself, a calmer tone following. "Forgive me," he sighs, "it has been a... long week." He fidgets with one of his cufflinks as he continues. "We will address it in time. It's a delicate topic, you must understand. To announce the Government's agreements with the Omnics as well as these Omnic numbers would create a panic."

"Good," McCree replies. "Ya' need it. Might get somethin' done."

"The Government would also consider it an invitation to war."

McCree leans back in his seat. "Y' say that like it ain't gonna happen eventually." There's a long silence once he says this, the eyes of the entire Committee on him, some of them slightly shocked. The only sound other than the ticking of the clock on the wall is the clicking of high heels in the hall. The PA from before, probably. "I ain't meanin' t' cause a disagreement," he assures them after a moment. The heels are louder. "But that's th' way Overwatch sees this goin', Mr Cromwell. And believe me -- we've seen things go this way more times than we can count."

Cromwell opens his mouth to retort, shifting in his seat, readying for what McCree can assume will be some kind of challenge on McCree's authority. However, before he can speak, the door opens. "What's this?" A voice asks sharply.

When McCree sets eyes on you, it takes him a full moment to recognise you, after which he is speechless. He's lucky that the situation calls for silence, because he's so surprised by how you look right now that he wouldn't be able to string a full sentence together just yet. The best he can do is try and keep his expression flat.

You raise an eyebrow, your arms crossed as you look over the full Committee. The Committee who has met _without_ you. He's seen you all done up before, sure. He's done his research, watched the vids and seen the pictures -- but he's finding that it doesn't do you any justice to the real thing. Sure, you've ticked the right boxes as far as your get up and grooming goes, but there's something else. It's like being all dressed up like this has changed you, as though looking sharp has made you not just sharp but downright dangerous. You're... intimidating; a figure in red, out for blood, ready to cut down dissent with a perfectly arched brow.

"Ms Beaumont," Cromwell says with a grin. He stands, the rest of the table joining him in the gesture, McCree a little delayed. "It's so good to see you unharmed--"

"Do you care to explain why I was excluded from a meeting of my own Committee?" You interrupt. "You excuse had better be good, Anton," you warn, "I'm am far too tired to play games with you today."

The tension sets into the room like a fog, several Committee members looking to each other as though they need help. The pressure is on Cromwell, though. You don't even bother looking at McCree. He's not your problem right now. "Well," Cromwell begins, his speed and tone very careful and deliberate. "Mr McCree needed to inform us of some Overwatch business."

"And I was excluded _why?_ " You ask.

McCree clears his throat, finally regaining his swagger. "'Cause I insisted that we do this as soon as possible," he explains, Cromwell looking somewhat relieved, even though he'd been verbally sparring with the Cowboy only moments before. "Wouldn't know when I'd have ya' people all t'gether in a room again, but I reckon'd I'd have plenty o' time t' bring ya' up t' speed later."

You exhale, shaking your head. "Well, we'll have to see how our schedules line up, because that was quite the assumption."

"It's no assumption," Cromwell says. "Overwatch has made some suggestions, and we've discussed them. Security measures, mostly. It's been decided that, given his track record in bringing you back to us, and on Overwatch's recommendation, Mr McCree will take up position as your head of personal security."

For what must be a full minute you stare at Cromwell, waiting for someone to start laughing, or for a punchline to be delivered -- but it doesn't happen. No, that would make too much sense. "Absolutely not."

"Reckon' ya' ain't got mucha' a choice," McCree insists. "I mean, sure, I can go back t' Overwatch, but I'm th' best they got when it comes t' this line of work," he explains. "It's in th' best interests of ya' party, Ma'am."

Cromwell nods. "We've already signed contracts and agreements with Overwatch to--"

"Ma'am?" You laugh, completely disregarding whatever Cromwell has to say. "It's _Ma'am_ now?" You throw your hands up, shaking your head in defeat. "I'm not able to re-assign Cromwell," you warn the entire table, "but if another meeting is called without me, I'll have every single one of you re-assigned, understand?" With that, you turn and storm away, the door slamming behind you as you make your way down the hall and back to the elevator.

"Ms Beaumont," a certain, southern drawl calls after you. You roll your eyes, mashing your finger into the button for the next floor down and refusing to acknowledge him, even though you can hear his footsteps approaching down the hall. "Can we just talk 'bout this--"

"No," you snap, your back still to him. "I have things to do before this press conference." You begin to mash at the button again and again. "This press conference I. Don't. Even. Want. To. Do."

"Look," he says with a sigh, the doors finally opening. "I know I didn't make th' best first impression," he pauses, letting you get into the elevator first. Despite your efforts to close the doors on him, though, he manages to get inside with you. "But all I want is t' help ya' out."

"Really?" You scoff? "How are you going to help me?" You ask. "Let me guess? Sleeping with me to help me 'loosen up?'"

He opens his mouth to argue, but stops himself, instead reaching out and pressing the emergency stop button. The entire elevator gives a sudden lurch, forcing you to brace against the wall as you let out a cry of surprise. "Now, look," he begins, but you're much too outraged right now to let him finish.

"Are you crazy?!" You shout. "What are you doing?!"

"I'm making ya' listen t' me, 'cause I think what ya' doin' is important and I don't think ya' buddy Cromwell is takin' ya' seriously," he snaps. You almost flinch. You... didn't expect that. "I know I can be a bit gratin', I get that. You just ain't got th' personality type that finds me agreeable, fine. But I got a lot more faith in you than I do anyone ya' got in that chicken coop ya' call a Committee. So does Overwatch." He drops his shoulders a little, satisfied that you're finally listening to him. "I saw th' script he wrote for ya', and if I'm gonna be honest? It's good if ya' wanna let the Government get away with, ya' know, everythin'. Now I seen ya' interviews, I seen videos of ya' debatin' with folk -- hell, I seen ya' give everyone in that room a dressin' down before. What ya' gotta do is ditch that script n' just tell 'em."

You blink. "Are you being serious?"

"Serious as I ever been," he assures you. "Go off script. Tell 'em what ya' know. Tell 'em what we saw out there in the desert n' we'll post the evidence online for 'em. Most of all, though? Ya' gotta call for unification. Ya' gotta scare th' Government. Let 'em know we're serious."

"That'd... that'd be..."

"An invitation t' war?" He offers. "Damned straight it would be."

You shake your head. "I don't think we need a war."

McCree shakes his head. "Writin's on the wall, darlin," he says. "If you don't declare it, those Omnics will. N' I reckon' ya' know that better than anyone in that room."

You remain silent as he presses the call button, telling the operator on the other end that someone accidentally pressed the emergency button. He's right. Maybe. You're not sure. What he says holds weight, anyway. "McCree?" You ask when the operator hangs up. He glances to you in acknowledgement. "I know you like to play mind games because it's your job or whatever, but... is what you're saying right now real?" You ask. "Because I can remember you implying I was a puppet only a few days ago."

"Darlin," he laughs, the elevator beginning to move again, "I always been honest with ya'."

"So you _do_ think I'm a puppet?" You ask.

He shrugs. "I think a lotta' people been takin' advantage of ya', underestimatin' ya', yeah." The doors open with a chime and he smiles at you. "But I also think today's th' day ya' get t' break away." With that, he steps out, heading into the dressing room and leaving you in the elevator to process all of this.

You absolutely hate to say this, but even though he's a rude, sleazy idiot in a cowboy hat? He's right. And you've got an hour to make peace with that before it's time to address the media.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 4am hahahahahaha  
> (I promise the suit chapter is coming guys)


	5. You’re The Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CN: Some swearing, war talk, Ana levels of sass.

You're trying your best to stay collected. Usually, press conferences are of little trouble to you -- but you usually have a lot more time to prepare than this. You look down to the data pad on the lectern, the words written there not yours, but entirely Cromwell's. When he handed you the speech, he'd acted as though he were doing you a favour. But it doesn't feel like that. It feels like... something else. Like you're being told what to do.

You clear your throat, looking up to the seated press and media in front of you. Cameras at the ready, microphones and recording devices in the air, all ready to listen. There's so much broadcast equipment here. This is live. Everyone in the country will see it, no doubt. No editing. No second takes. What you say and do here is what everyone sees. You can't slip.

How did Eric do this so easily?

"I would like to thank the press for joining me here today on such short notice," you begin, glancing down only momentarily to read the words on the datapad, "as well as my fellow Australians for taking the time to watch or listen to this broadcast from wherever you may be." You take a moment, a slight one, no more than a pause. "As I am sure many of you are already well aware, following a violent incident on my way to the National Unions Rally, I was detained. I would like to assure the public and my supporters that I was unharmed. My removal and detainment was part of a security operation carried out for the safety of myself and my colleagues. This is why my whereabouts were kept confidential. This was not an incident of kidnapping, but instead an incident of strengthened security." You look across your audience. They're not exactly bored or fidgety, but you can tell this isn't the news they were hoping to hear. "I would like to thank our security initiative for their diligent work in ensuring my safety..."

Something catches your eye. A man in a hat, leaning against the wall, all the way back in the small hall you've gathered in. McCree. His arms are crossed, his face is a little dark. He's definitely not behind this speech. You can't blame him, really. It's... it's avoiding everything. Everything you've learned and seen with your own eyes, pushed aside, swept under the rug for the sake of diplomacy. ...Diplomacy with the people who have been trying to kill you. The people who probably killed Eric.

You take a deep breath, reaching in front of you and turning off the datapad screen. "I would like to thank our security initiative for their diligent work ensuring my safety," you repeat, a few eyebrows in the crowd raising as your sudden change of tone. "It is essential now, more than ever, that we protect ourselves. Our political beliefs, our freedoms, our homes and our loved ones are in more danger than ever." You glance to your left. Cromwell isn't happy. "During my journey home from my secure location, I learned of the great dangers that are no longer breathing down our necks, but are now at our front doors. I have been informed by a reliable source that our own Federal Government, who claim to keep us safe from the Omnic threat, have been in negotiations to work with the Omnics. As part of an exchange, they have offered land -- our land -- to those who we have already lost so much to." There are a few murmurs from the press, some tapping away frantically at their data pads as you speak. "Why?" You ask. "So the Omnics may silence us, so that we will once again fear the boogeyman and allow the real enemy to do as they please in the name of 'defence.' I have seen these documents with my own eyes, and we will make them available to the public shortly after this conference."

You glance to McCree, who's nodding to himself, a little smile on his face.

"Many may say this is diplomacy," you continue, "that these are just words or letters on a page that mean nothing. But I have seen different. During the long journey home, we came across a horde of Null-class Omnics, all of them vacant, waiting for orders, no more than two hours from Longreach." More murmurs, a shocked gasp or two. "I have also obtained footage of this, which will be made available with the documents."

You place your palm on the edge of the lectern, leaning a little. "The Federal Government is going to these lengths because they are _afraid_ of our voices," you explain. "Our voices are loud, our cries are heard, and this scares them. Well, my fellow Australians, it is time. It is time for our shouts to come together as a single, thunderous roar." You look directly into the main camera set up in the centre of the room. "I am calling for a mass Party unification," you say, your voice firm and rock solid in its conviction. "I am calling for all political factions who have supported us in the past to join us, for those who feel the call to rise up and reclaim what's left of this country for the people! We, the workers, the farmers, the academics, the students, the unemployed and anyone who does not belong to the top two percent that inhabits our current Parliament -- we will unite as one. Not as the Australian Liberation Party, but as the People's Rebellion!"

You stop speaking, your jaw tightening, the media in front of you applauding as you thank them and step away. Your head is buzzing. You walk directly past Cromwell, not so much as looking him in the eye. Not that it matters -- he's so busy running to the lectern to inform the media there'll be no time for questions that you could have slapped him and he wouldn't have noticed. You pass through the doors and into the greenroom, your team welcoming you with excited cheers of encouragement. You don't exactly feel over the moon about it, though. You feel shaky. You're full of adrenaline, and you can't really understand why. You've made so many speeches before, bigger ones than these, in front of crowds of cheering people. Maybe it's because this time you actually changed something. Maybe you've done something incredibly important.

"What were you thinking?" A shout suddenly snaps you out of your train of thought, Cromwell back on the scene, visibly furious. You glance around -- your team are all standing by uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. "You had no right to make those kind of outlandish statements without consulting the Committee first! Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

"Cromwell, I'm the leader of this party and-"

"We will be a laughing stock!" He snaps over the top of you. "No one in Parliament will take us seriously! I'd be surprised if we're welcome to keep our seats anymore." He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "How are we meant to change _anything_ if we're removed from Parliament?"

You shake your head. "Parliament?" You ask. "You're worried about _Parliament?_ How far has that got us? It's got us nowhere. We need to move now, not when they say we can!"

"You have no idea what you've done to us!"

You open your mouth to argue back, but someone clears their throat, interrupting you. It's McCree. You're not sure how long he's been there, or how much he's seen, but he seems unhappy if the look he's giving Cromwell is anything to go by. "Sorry t' interrupt," he begins, the legitimacy of his apology entirely questionable. He holds up a phone, nodding to you. "Got a call for you," he says, "from Overwatch. It's pretty urgent."

You don't even wait for Cromwell's response, instead nodding to McCree. "I'll take it in the suite," you reply flatly, gesturing for McCree to follow you as you head through the doors on the opposite side of the green room that lead into the halls. Whatever look you give everyone as you pass says enough -- they dare not follow you. "Good or bad?" You ask him once you're out of earshot, your heels clicking on the tiles of the hallway until you come to the elevator.

He shrugs. "Bit o' both, I reckon." You glance at his phone, the screen visibly indicating that whoever is on the other end is on hold. You can speak freely. "They're impressed, but there's a lotta' work t' be done." The doors open and you both step into the elevator, the doors closing only after you press the button for the 11th floor. "Ya' done th' right thing," he says suddenly. "That speech, I mean." He looks you up and down for a moment before giving a nod. "Lemme' know if that Cromwell fella' gives ya' any trouble. I'll set him right."

"He'll come around," you say this half heartedly -- and it's pretty obvious that McCree can tell you're not 100% behind your own statement. "Eric saw a lot in him. We owe him a lot."

"He'd wanna'," McCree scoffs. You lead him out of the elevator and into the suite, now empty of people but still stocked with your team's kits. You close the doors behind McCree. "'Cause if he don't come 'round, he ain't gonna' be on the right side o' history." You take a seat on the couch in the centre of the room, McCree joining you, although sitting a noticeable distance away. "Down t' business, then," he exhales, holding his phone up and pressing a few buttons.

An image projects up from the screen, sitting at just about the median eye-level for the two of you. A video call. You make note to thank him for the warning, but honestly, what else could you do to prepare? Not like you're lacking for any makeup right now. A woman is on the other end of the call, and she's honestly as colorful as everyone else you've met from Overwatch. There's a calm smile on her matured face, an eyepatch covering one eye, her silver hair braided to the side. Despite the immediate warmth, though, you can see a seriousness in her eyes that reminds you that this is a business call. "Ah, Mrs Beaumont," she begins, giving a slight nod, "I'm glad that we were able to get in touch so quickly during such a busy time."

You smile in return, glancing to McCree. You'd taken this as an order, not a request. "Least I could do," you reply. "After all that Overwatch has done for me and my country."

McCree suddenly speaks, as though he's forgotten something. "Uh, Mrs Beaumont," he begins, gesturing to the image, "this is Captain Ana Amari."

A little awkward, but she chuckles to herself, shaking her head. "Please forgive him. I've spent a long time trying to teach him some manners, but I'm afraid very few ever stuck." You give a sympathetic laugh, but you're unsure of exactly what to make of this... banter. "I must congratulate you on your speech, Mrs Beaumont. You have made a very big call today."

"Yes," you reply, exhaling. "But it needed to be made."

"Exactly, my dear," Ana responds. "I don't think I need to explain the gravity of your situation, then?" You shake your head. "In that case, I think it is time to make plans, don't you agree?" She pauses, lifting a cup of tea to her lips. She's had tea this whole time? "Now, I think it's worth letting you know that Overwatch has had someone inside the CSIRO for a while now and we've gathered some important information. Most pressingly, the Federal Government has recently stepped up its weapon research and development programs. You're going to have a big army to fight, one with better toys than you."

You give a long, deep sigh and lean into the back of the couch, decorum thrown to the wind as you bring your hand to cover your eyes for a second. "Jesus," you whisper. "CSIRO... that's... worse than Omnic stuff." You've seen the kinds of super weapons the CSIRO has worked on. They've collaborated with Vishkar Corporation and Volskaya Industries before. "We have militias, explosives, guerilla armies, sure," you begin, running what you already _know_ you'll have through a range of mental scenarios. But there's little chance of a Junker cell holding up against Omnics with literal laser cannons for eyes. "But we can't build. We don't have the money for more weapons, let alone to feed us, or stock hospitals, or... anything else done during war."

"And that is why I am calling," Ana replies, the same calm smile on her face, as though this is all going according to plan. "Now, Overwatch will providing you with assistance, of course, but even our resources are somewhat stretched. The greatest wealth we can offer you is experience and knowledge, be that in the form of operatives, information or blueprints." She shifts a little, the smile on her face spreading somewhat, even if only a little. It's still enough for you to notice. "But you are a resourceful young woman," she assures you. "A well connected one. I'd say that anyone influential enough to start a war is also influential enough to have it funded. I'm sure your late husband's contacts would be more than willing to attend any function you throw, for example..."

"A fundraiser?" You ask, a little bit of surprised laughter in your voice. "For a war?"

McCree shrugs. "I've seen it done before, certainly wouldn't be outta' the question, I reckon'." He looks around for a moment. "...Might need some better digs, though."

"I trust you'll keep in touch about arrangements," Ana says. "Overwatch will be available to provide support. Which you'll need." She pauses. "Believe me."

"Of course," you give a tired nod, sitting back upright. "I'll look into it immediately."

Ana gives another nod of acknowledgement. "I'll leave you in the capable hands of McCree, then," she pauses, glancing to the faux-cowboy, "who I trust is behaving himself." He gives a sly grin, but it occurs to you that this is your chance. You can tell his superior right now about his behaviour, about his rudeness and his lack of manners and how he's sleeping with Junkrat's... sister? Cousin? You're a little unclear on that.

But something stops you. Maybe it's because he's so ingrained in the situation now. Maybe it's because he knew to take care of your image when faced with the media outside the bus before, or because he encouraged you to make that speech and tell the truth. "Very well behaved," you reply. Whatever it is, it's saved his ass. This time, anyway.

She raises an eyebrow. "Now _that_ is a surprise to hear," she laughs. "McCree, I'll be in touch. Amari out." And with that, she's gone. The call ends, and her projection vanishes back into his phone.

There's a few moments spent in silence. You drop back against the couch, suddenly aware of how exhausted you are, unsure how to sell the idea of a fundraising party to the committee. It's McCree who breaks it, clearing his throat and shifting a little, that wiley smile on his face. "...Well behaved, huh?"

"I'm this close to slapping that smile off your face," you warn.

He laughs, rising from the couch, shaking his head. "Come on, Sweet Pea. Don't make promises ya' won't keep."

"I just saved your ass," you snap, straightening up again, your jaw tense. "I could have told her everything about how you've behaved, you know."

"And yet... ya' didn't." He shrugs. "Why is that?"

Your lips tighten as your mind scrambles to find a reason. "Because you got me home in one piece," is what you settle for.

"That it, huh?" He asks. "You sure it ain't 'cause ya' startin' t' like me?"

"Absolutely not." You scoff and roll your eyes, but he merely laughs. "What's so funny?"

"Well, we'll see how ya' feel 'bout that when I'm charmin' th' pants offa' ya' big ol' political pals for ya', Sweet Pea."

You laugh. "Excuse me? You'll do no such thing."

"Oh, I reckon' I'll haveta'," he argues, grinning ear to ear as it dawns on you both how outraged you must look right now. "Gonna' be a little awkward if I'm stuck t' ya' side all night an' not workin' the room with ya'."

Raising your eyebrows, you struggle to find words. Is he asking you on a date? Is this a joke? "You're not going to be 'stuck to my side,' McCree. That's out of the question."

"Fraid' I will be," he laughs. "Bein' ya' personal security detail, I'll haveta' be by ya' side all night. Big political gatherin's like that? Might as well paint a target on ya'." You want to argue. You want to tell him to kiss your ass in no uncertain terms, even if it's absolutely unbecoming of you and means you're lowering yourself to his level. But he's right. He's absolutely right. And worst of all? He knows that you know he's right. "It's alright," he chuckles, turning to leave as someone knocks at the door. "Ain't no-one gonna' assume nothin' improper. I assure you. I'm way outta' your league."

You absolutely, positively, hate this man -- this man who has just led you into war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Next chapter is the suit chapter. You've all been warned.


	6. Power and the Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CN: Violence, the bourgeois.

Eric was always so good at these parties. He had a way with them. He always seemed to understand what was going on, right down to the smallest detail. Complete control. And it showed. No matter how bad things were in the car ride, despite the way you might have been screaming at eachother in the hotel room, Eric came alive the second he stepped through the venue doors. His smile wide, arms extended in greeting to those who had already arrived. He knew every name, every guest's current state of affairs, their children's names, their dietary requirements. Nothing ever seemed to overwhelm your husband.

You try to hold on to those memories of him as you put on your earrings. Part of you wants to use them to channel him, to try and summon whatever he did to make things work when in the public eye. The other part of you just prefers those kinds of memories. The memories not relegated to your word against his, the memories that everyone else seems to share, that an entire war campaign is about to be built on.

As far as your team goes, they've outdone themselves. Your jewellry is, of course, on loan, but looks like it was made for you -- as does the dress. A local designer, commissioned for the event. It feels a bit backwards, really, throwing a soiree like this to essentially beg for money. A lavish event held in London, a neutral and friendly ground for your cause ever since the Federal Government split from the Commonwealth. You wonder how many guns this dress could have bought, how many medical supplies your shoes cost. It's all necessary though, given how many of your sympathisers could make it to London, but not to Sydney. They probably won't be allowed into the country soon. This is safer and more convenient for everyone.

Outside your hotel suite's bedroom, Captain Amari waits for you. She's one of the leaders of the security team that Overwatch has kindly set up for the evening. She's given you a quick briefing already. McCree will, of course, be by your side all evening -- something she assures you is necessary due to his covert ops experience. Captain Amari seems to sense how you feel about it entirely, as her tone was almost apologetic. Another agent you're yet to meet will be joining you at the fundraiser as the 'official' Overwatch representative, while a small security team including Captain Amari will be patrolling the perimeter of the venue. The need for all this security is... unnerving, but you didn't push for specifics. Captain Amari has an air of confidence about her, this aura of experience that makes her word firm. You don't doubt her at all.

While you finish getting ready, McCree joins Ana in the living room of the suite, eyeing the door that leads to your bedroom as he fidgets with his cufflinks. "She _still_ in there?" He asks Ana in a way that's almost under his breath.

"You are surprised?" Ana smiles, shaking her head gently as she looks McCree up and down. "It has been so long since I've seen you dressed up," she remarks. "I'd almost forgotten how handsome you are when you dress like an adult."

He rolls his eyes, flopping himself onto the couch with a sharp exhale. "I'm always handsome," he argues playfully. He knows she's not wrong, though. It's so rare that he's required to go undercover in a situation that requires it that he almost forgot how he looked in a suit. He was hardly a humble man, but even McCree had to admit that he was a different kind of good looking when he got his hair out of his face, took off his hat and wore a well-chosen pocket square. His ex-wife always used to comment on how much she loved to see him 'scrubbed up,' although this is probably the most expensive suit he's worn. The occasion calls for it, though, he supposes. "Who's in the squad?" He asks.

"Myself, Fareeha, Jack, Genji and Hanzo," she responds, watching him cautiously, knowing the last name in that list will elicit some kind of reaction from him.

She's not wrong. For a moment, his eyes light up -- but it's gone as quickly as it's there, hidden behind his composure. "Hanzo?" He repeats, an eyebrow raised. "Figured he'd still be on leave."

Ana chuckles to herself. "He was," she says with a shrug, "but the second he found out this mission involved you, he insisted. I think he misses his old friend."

He scoffs a little. "Prolly' gettin' stir crazy."

"June and her mother are well," Ana says suddenly, an all-knowing smirk on her face, arms crossed. He was fishing for information, and she knows him much too well to let him get away with it. "She asks about you every day, you know? You should send her an email in your downtime."

"Yeah, in my downtime." His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

She shakes her head. "You cannot keep holding onto it," she warns him.

"I ain't."

"You are." She's blunt, and McCree opens his mouth to argue, but the door opens and he silences himself as you step into the room.

Whatever McCree and Ana had been talking about has left him visibly displeased, but something about his expression changes when you step into the room. He's staring at you, and it's making you... uneasy. Deciding to avoid whatever it is he's seeing, you turn your attention to Ana, who's pushing herself off the wall, offering you a warm smile. "Ready when you are," you say, a half laugh in your voice, feeling a little exposed for some reason. Maybe it's the dress. Maybe it's because it's so form fitting, or because you aren't wearing a jacket.

"It's nice to see you in some color," Ana notes, nodding to your dress. "It suits you."

"Well, I figured if there's a time to come out of mourning, it's now." You give a shrug and brush some of your hair behind your ear, resisting the urge to even so much as glance at McCree.

Ana reaches out, gently shifting the necklace you wear, centering the jewels. "He would be proud of you," she remarks. There's something about Ana you like. She's genuine, warm and trustworthy, everything she says coming from a place of experience that you know in your bones you can't argue. She's mentioned before that her daughter is in Overwatch. You wonder if what you're sensing is her motherly instinct. The feminist side of you doesn't want to assume that this skilled soldier has overwhelming maternal instinct for everyone because she has a child, but you can't help it. If anything, knowing how much she seems to care makes her a little scarier.

McCree suddenly clears his throat, standing up, demanding your attention. Now that you're paying him any, it dawns on you how... nice he looks. There are other words you'd use to describe the sight of him in a suit, his hair out of his face, his stubble trimmed enough to be deemed 'tidy' -- but you refuse to, even within your own mind. Although, you have to admit it's a bit of a waste. If you didn't know him as you do, you might even think he was handsome. "Reckon' it's time fer' us t' get this show on the road," he says, stepping toward you and offering you his arm.

You stare at it, an eyebrow raised, unsure exactly what he thinks you're going to do with this. "You're right," you agree, giving Ana a polite nod before walking right past him, head held high. You can smell his cologne. He finally smells of something other than oil and cigars. If you were a weaker woman, it would probably do something for you. But you aren't, and you leave the living room without hesitating, heading into the entryway of the suite to get your coat.

Once you're out of earshot, McCree takes a step to follow you, but Ana reaches out and seizes his arm, pinching the underside of it. "Behave," she warns, her voice stern, looking him in the eye as he flinches in surprise. It's somewhere between an official order and the way a mother warns a misbehaving child.

McCree blinks, genuinely baffled. "What?" He asks.

"You _know_ what," she insists, her voice low.

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head and giving her a playful smirk as he gently pulls his arm away. "She ain't my type," is all he says as he leaves through the same doors you passed through.

* * *

Lena Oxton is an incredibly enthusiastic woman. "Sorry if I'm too much," she laughs, taking another mini-sushi roll from a waiter as he passes by, "but this is _really_ fancy!" She tosses the snack in her mouth, smiling as she chews. It's endearing, really. She looks over your shoulder for a moment, watching McCree talk to one of the other foreign delegates in attendance. "Was it hard?" She asks.

You shake your head. "It was a bit overwhelming at first, but I have some staff members who love organising parties."

"No," she shakes her head, leaning in a little, "Getting McCree in a suit. I've never seen him dressed up before."

You turn for a moment, glancing to him -- but only quickly. "Have you been in Overwatch for long?" You ask her. "He hasn't really told me much about the people he works with."

Lena nods. "Yep! Well, I was with RAF first, then I joined as a pilot, and then..." she tilts her head from side to side quickly. "It's a long story. But my first mission was here, actually. Fighting Omnics, taking back the city during the first crisis."

"Is that where you got these?" You ask, gesturing to the line of medals on her chest.

"This one," she says, pointing to a particular star. Suddenly, Lena's eyes widen, peeking over your shoulder once again. "Is that..." she takes a minute, as if not believing her eyes. "Is that Princess Charlotte?!" She gasps a little. "Bloody hell," she says under her breath. "It's her."

Of course, when you turn to see her, Princess Charlotte greets you with a smile. "Darling!" She exclaims, crossing the room to greet you, all but ignoring a few who'd seemingly lined to meet her. She approaches you with arms outstretched, an old friend, and you kiss each other on the cheek when she finally arrives before you. "It's so good to see you again." You instinctively glance to McCree, who has moved closer, an eyebrow raised. You probably didn't tell him she'd be here, actually, so this is probably a surprise.

"How long has it been?" You ask. "Four, five years?"

"Six by my count," she replies. "You're looking wonderful," she notes.

"As are you," you laugh.

Suddenly, a figure standing beside you clears it's throat and you remember exactly what kind of situation you're in. It's all you can do to avoid gritting your teeth in frustration as McCree says "now, Darlin', you never told me ya'll had friends in such high places."

You open your mouth to drop a hint that he should move along, but Charlotte glances between you, her curiosity peaked. "I wasn't aware you had company tonight," she says, shooting you a cheeky glance from the corner of her eye.

"Charlotte," you begin, doing your best to withhold a sigh, "this is Zachary Connors, an investor in our war effort. Zachary," your voice has a harsher tone to it as you look to McCree, "this is _Her Royal Highness_ Princess Charlotte." You thin your eyes ever so much, trying to warn him to behave himself without actually having to say it. It seems to get across, as he gives a slight but polite bow -- it shocks you a little, actually, seeing him bother at all with some degree of protocol.

"It is my absolute pleasure," he all but purrs. You have to stop yourself from scrunching up your face. "You never told me you were friends wit' a _Princess,_ now."

"We're friends from University," Charlotte explains. "Ms Beaumont spent a year at Cambridge as part of an exchange program under the Commonwealth Initiative. You know, to try and stop Australia from exiting?" She chuckles. "Lot of bloody good that did." You shoot McCree a glance, taking a little bit of joy in how surprised he seems by Charlotte's... well, how casual Charlotte can be. "And now she's here trying to start a bloody war." Charlotte is clearly teasing you.

You laugh, nodding to her. "Only with your help, of course."

"I'll send the cavalry right away."

The two of you share a laugh, McCree only really half-heartedly joining in. He seems... a little uncomfortable, actually. "Would you ladies like a drink?" He asks suddenly, scratching at his ear. Your jaw nearly drops. He _is_ uncomfortable! You've done it. Finally.

"That would be wonderful," Charlotte says with a smile. "Anything with vodka in it, please. For both of us. I think we'll need it." He gives her another polite nod and walks off to the bar, Charlotte immediately stepping directly beside you and leaning in to speak in a hushed whisper. "Where on earth did you find him, Darling?" She asks.

You blink, laughing when it dawns on you what she means. "Him?" You repeat. "He's a weapons investor. Interested in the wasteland's omnium reserves."

She smirks. " _Just_ the omnium reserves?"

You shake your head quickly. "Strictly professional. Trust me."

"What a shame," she says with a shrug. "He's divine."

"Charlotte," you scoff.

"What?" She laughs, patting her hand to your back. "I've always liked an accent."

The rest of the evening is spent socialising and schmoozing politicians, with the help of both Charlotte, and, despite your reluctance, McCree. There are speeches made, dedicated to your late husband, your revolution and, of course, you. The American Ambassador tells you that he'll speak to his people and work on getting you a meeting with the president, the French offer military support, as do the Chinese (if you accept that or not is another thing.) Korea's ambassador offers to look into a contract for their MEKA mechs, and it looks as though McCree talked the Saudi's into offering resources and munitions over cigars. As much as you dislike him, you have to admit -- he's very charming. In fact, he had you genuinely laughing a few times throughout the night.

"I'll have a word with Father," Charlotte says as she bids you farewell, "see what we can offer you. I don't think we can offer weaponry, but we can probably send humanitarian aid." She pauses, glancing to McCree, who's on the other side of the room, very involved in conversation with Lena and the Italian minister of defence. "Hold on to him," she says, tilting her head towards him. "He's a gem."

Eventually, the party clears out, and you find yourself having to resign to the fact that maybe, just maybe, Jesse McCree can actually be alright when he wants to. He's successfully charmed the pants off just about the entire party, putting the situation entirely in your favour by extension. Captain Amari was right to have him on the floor with you. He has, despite your grievances with him otherwise, been very helpful.

The time comes when you're the last at the venue, and begin to shuffle out and towards the limo. You reach for your coat, but to your surprise, McCree takes it, helping you into it. You pause, unsure what to make of this, but decide he's probably keeping up appearances for the last of the stragglers. "Thank you," you say quietly before exiting the doors, McCree behind you.

You begin to walk down the steps of the venue, the cold air hitting you a little, when McCree suddenly speaks. "You throw a good party."

"Well," you exhale, "I should thank you. You definitely made some good impressions that I might not have myself."

He shrugs. "Just doin' my job, I reckon'. You do pretty well, t' be honest," he explains as you reach the bottom of the steps. "Think th' problem is that yer' so special that it intimidates some folk. They just need a friend in their ear t' let 'em know ya' friendly, that's all."

You laugh a little in disbelief. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It was." You reach the limo and McCree rests his hand on the roof. "Look, I know we got off on th' wrong foot. But I reckon' if we can jus' start fresh n' work t'gether, we could--"

"Oi!" A voice calls from the top of the stairs, a figure waving to you. It's Lena, a grin on her face as she rushes down the steps to you. "Mind if I jump in with you?" She asks. "The others won't be ready clearing the site for a while and I'm about ready to have a snooze."

"Sure," you reply, fully aware that Jesse had already opened his mouth to say otherwise. "You're in the same hotel as us, right?" Lena gives a nod and you look to McCree, who opens the door for you with an exhale. You climb into the backseat of the limousine, Lena joining you (although stumbling a little due to the rush she's in,) followed by McCree.

The limo pulls out onto the road, the short ride through the city beginning. "That was amazing!" Lena exclaims. "I haven't had food like that in years, and Princess Charlotte actually _talked_ to me!" She's grinning ear to ear. "I can't wait to tell Emily about this, she'll never believe me."

You glance to McCree, the two of you sharing a little smile before you open your mouth to explain that you actually know the Princess, but something stops you. As you turn a corner, there's a loud crack. Thunder, maybe? No. It's different. You look to Lena and McCree, and suddenly, without warning, the door is open and Lena is... gone. Like she's vanished. "What the--"

McCree suddenly pulls you against him, basically covering yourself with him. "Get down!" He roars over the sound of horns going off in traffic. It's then you realise that this ride is getting bumpy, and you're veering to the left...

The limo drives off the side of the road and into a shop window.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUM BUM BUUUUUUUUM


	7. The Boys Light Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Violence, car accidents, blood

"Come on, Sweetpea, don't take a nap on me, not right now."

Something is holding your face, turning your head. Your neck hurts -- that's the first obnoxiously obvious thing, along with the hard concrete under your legs. You aren't in the limo anymore, and you aren't sure why. You open your eyes for a second. It's McCree, studying your face carefully, looming over you. You want to pull away, but the light behind him is so bright that you squeeze your eyes shut again, letting out a confused whimper.

"There we go," he exhales, relief in his voice. "You 'right?" He asks.

"Um..." you open your eyes again, more carefully this time. "I... maybe?" You shift, realising his arm is behind you, almost... cradling you. "The limo...?"

"Driver got sniped and we had a bit o' an accident," McCree explains, taking his free hand and brushing some hair out of your face, giving a short, sharp whistle. "And you've definitely bumped yer' head real good. How ya' feelin'?"

You mentally scan your body. "Very sore," you begin, "and my neck hurts a little."

"Probably whiplash," he says to himself. "Reckon' yer' right t' walk? We ain't gonna be able t' stick around fer much longer."

"Yeah," you nod. "Just give me a second."

It's then that you hear it, loud and clear - gunshots in the distance. McCree's free hand snaps to his ear, bringing your attention to the earpiece he's wearing. Has be been wearing that all night? He frowns, shaking his head quickly. "'Fraid we ain't got a second," he announces. Before you can even respond, McCree has all but scooped you up and tossed you over his shoulder. You give a confused yelp, only able to hold on as he breaks into a sprint. "Ya'll can chew me out later," he shouts, turning a corner into an alleyway.

In any other situation you'd be protesting him, but the sound of police and ambulance sirens in the distance are enough to get your heart racing. This isn't another of McCree's flippant displays of masculinity. This is serious. Someone shot your limi driver. Someone intended to kill you, and it's spooked both McCree and Lena enough to make them both spring to action. You grip to what you can, one hand on his shoulder, the other to the fabric of his suit jacket.

"Shit," he mumbles under his breath, stopping for a moment and looking around. You've managed to sprint to Piccadilly Circus, and the sight of a woman in a black tie gown thrown over a man's shoulder is raising a few eyebrows. "Act natural," he whispers to you, lowering you down onto your feet. He quickly looks around before shrugging off his jacket, offering it to you. "They'll be lookin' for a man in black n' a lady in ya' dress," he explains. "Might throw 'em off." He helps you into the jacket, which is a little big on you, but surprisingly soft. You wonder if it's bespoke. "There," he exhales, throwing his arm over your shoulders, his voice low, eyes darting about as you begin to walk, obviously trying to blend you in with the crowd of people. "Now we just look like a couple on a date. How's ya' head?"

You reach up, lightly touching your hairline where it's beginning to sting. When you examine your fingers, you realise there's blood on the tips of them. You're bleeding. Great. "I'm bleeding," you announce.

"I can see that."

"And it stings."

"Got a headache? The light hurtin' yer' eyes?" he asks.

You look around at the bright signs and lights of the street. Your eyes don't hurt, but you can definitely already feel a dull aching sensation in your skull. "Eyes are fine. Have a headache, though."

He exhales, guiding you down the street. "Probably a lil' concussed," he muses, lifting his free hand to his earpiece again. He pauses, listening to whoever is on the other end of the line. "I got 'er," he replies, "bumped her head, but she's alright. We're en route t' the hotel now." A police car speeds past, sirens screeching, sending a chill through you when you realise where it must be going. "... _Shit!_ " He hisses under his breath, his speed picking up, urgency in every step. "I want eyes on 'im ASAP." He drops his hand, his hold on you getting a little tighter. "See that street there?" He asks, nodding just ahead. "When we get there, we're gonna start t' run, okay?" He quickly glances to your feet. "Kick off ya' shoes."

"What?"

"I ain't kiddin' when I say that we gotta' run," he warns. "We ain't gonna be able t' afford you stumblin' over." He's not wrong. While you can't say you have much trouble walking in them, you can't risk running in them. Not right now. You've never seen him like this before, and it's making you realise more and more with every moment exactly how serious this is. This isn't a lone sniper like the other times someone's tried to take you out. This is something else.

You nod, hopping a little to kick off one shoe beneath you, and then the other, leaving them where they fall and ignoring the second glances the occasional passer by gives you. The concrete of the pavement is cold on your bare feet, but it's a very small price to pay. You near the corner of the street and McCree's arm moves from your shoulder to your wrist. "If this goes south," he begins, "stay behind me. And if somethin' happens t' me? Run t' the hotel, fast as ya' can," he instructs. "Don't stick around."

"If something happens to you?" You repeat. This is new. It's not his usual cocky, indestructible, confident persona.

He nods. "These ain't like th' people that usually take shots at ya'," he explains. "These people are next level. They _will_ kill you." He lets go of your wrist momentarily, tapping something on his watch, something on the display changing.

You have so many questions. There's more than one person? Who are they? How does he know who they are and what they're like? Has he dealt with them before? How are they different to those who've previously tried to kill you? But you don't have time to ask. You reach the corner and you both break into a sprint, McCree's hand now holding yours as he leads you into the quiet street. You know this street. You can remember driving down it on the way to the venue. You aren't that far away, but it's still a distance. The digital display of his watch flashes blue, a slight hum coming from it. "Jesse, this is Ana," she transmits from his watch. He must have swapped from his earpiece to make it easier to hear while you run. "I'm not far from your position. Will have eyes on you soon."

"Any eyes on 'im yet?" He shouts into his watch.

"No. Lena spotted him roughly a---"

You don't hear the rest of what Ana has to say, because Jesse curses over the top of it as you both skid to a halt and you try to believe what you're seeing. A figure stands before you that definitely wasn't there before. It was like he appeared out of a fog. That should really be the most pressing matter, but you're definitely more concerned with the two guns he's holding. McCree all but throws you out of the way behind a parked car, throwing something to the ground that lets off a large flash as you hit the hood of the vehicle, crying out.

"He's here!" McCree shouts, joining you behind the cover of the car and reaching for the gun on his belt. Had that been there all night? Of course it had. How had you not noticed it? Was the jacket specially designed to hide it? He reaches up and fires off a couple of rounds before ducking back down beside you, reloading with a finesse that made it look second nature to him. It probably is, honestly. "Reyes is here! Need backup _now!_ "

The windows of the car you're hiding behind shatters as the figure fires, one gun after the other, the gunshots sending vibrations through the ground. You're trying so hard to stay quiet, as if that might help the situation, but you can't help it and let out a squeal. McCree reaches out and fires again, doing something that looks like he's smacking his gun, letting off six quick shots in succession before ducking back down to avoid another shot.

"'Member what I said before?" He asks over the gunfire. "'Bout leggin' it outta' here if things get dicey?" You nod slowly, not liking where this is going. "Well, this is pretty dicey, I reckon'." He finishes reloading his gun and then looks to you, your eyes meeting. "I'll be fine, I'll keep 'im busy. When I say so, you run, alright? N' don't look back." You give a silent nod, something in the pit of your stomach stirring. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears as he turns. "Go!" He shouts, reaching out to fire again. You quickly pull yourself up, stumbling a little on your shaky footing as you turn, preparing to run.

You scream.

The figure is standing right in front of you. How did he get there?! He wasn't there a moment ago! There's no way he could have possibly got there so quickly. He's so close that you're too petrified to move, staring at the mask he wears, too afraid to look at the gun he has aimed at you.

"Reyes," Jesse warns from behind you. "You don't gotta' do this." The figure doesn't respond. "She's more use t' ya' alive." Your heart nearly stops. Is he trying to bargain with him? Does he know this... _thing_ personally? "Gabe," he says carefully. "C'mon. Think of all th' info she's got."

There's a sound, and before you can even process what it is, you scream and flinch back, throwing your arms over your head. It takes a moment before you realise what you heard was a gunshot, yes, but you're fine. When you look up, you see the figure firing at something -- another man stands on a balcony above you, nodding towards you and McCree before drawing an arrow into a bow. There's a lot to unpack here, but by the time you notice that the figure attacking you has an arrow in his arm, McCree grabs your wrist and pulls you away. "C'mon!" He shouts, both of you beginning to run again.

Something flies past you, like a sudden gust of wind, and then there's rapid gunfire. You see something scaling a building from the corner of your eye. Then there are explosions behind you, and despite what McCree told you, you can't help but glance back. A figure flies above the street, the reflection of the street lights bouncing off its armor. There's shouting, a red light in the distance as there's more rapid gunfire. You hear Lena's voice shouting something about a sniper before she appears and disappears again. You want to decipher what you're seeing, but you don't have time. McCree doesn't let go of your arm, and you sprint around a corner, running as fast as your legs can carry you, not caring that the cold has made your toes sting with every step.

After five or so minutes of running, you reach the hotel, McCree all but pushing the doorman out of the way to get to the elevator. Suddenly, and with another gust of air, Lena is there with you in the lobby. "Winston's sending a dropship, but I'll secure the perimeter until then," she announces before vanishing and popping back up in front of the gobsmacked receptionist. "I'm with Overwatch and I need you to call the police and tell 'em 'Tracer's here,' _now,_ " is all you hear her say before McCree pulls you into the elevator, hitting the close doors button immediately. The trip up to your level is spent entirely in silence. You're too scared to say anything. The only sound is the chatter from his watch.

The second the doors open, it's back to business, sprinting down the hall to your suite. He reaches into his pocket, retrieving the keycard before gesturing for you to wait. He swipes the the card, carefully opening the door, slowly, his gun ready. He steps inside, ready to fire, before gesturing for you to follow him. He leads you to the bathroom, quickly sweeping it. "In here," he orders, voice almost a whisper. You step inside and he continues. "You wait in here while I clear the suite, 'kay? You lock this door and don't open it fer' anyone but me." He waits for you to nod before stepping back out, and you follow his instructions, immediately locking the bathroom.

The next few minutes are agonizing. You stand completely still, afraid to move, trying to breathe quietly, as if any noise or movement would trigger 'Reyes' to appear again. You've never seen anything like that. He was so close. It almost felt like the air between you was cold...

And then, eventually, there's a knock. "Alright, Sweetpea," McCree's voice drawls from the other side of the door. "Open up." You hesitate. How do you know it's him? What if... No. You're being paranoid. No one else calls you Sweetpea. No one else is like that, especially in this situation. When you open the door, it's not what you're expecting. McCree has a dining chair in front of him, blankets and pillows stacked on it, his other arm carrying what looks to be everything he could grab from the suite's pantry. "Reckon' we'll be in here a while," he explains, noticing your face as he brings it all in -- albeit somewhat clumsily. He dumps the snacks in the sink as you close the door, unloading all the blankets and pillows onto the floor as you step back.

"What?" You ask, realising how much your lungs hurt as you speak. "What do you mean?"

"Other rooms in the suite are compromised," he explains as he locks the door. "Big windows, walls facing other rooftops, all stuff that sniper could easily see ya' through." He takes the chair, wedging it underneath the door handle, using it as a barricade of sorts. "Bathroom's safest bit o' this suite. Walls are all shared with interior parts o' the buildin', no windows -- heck, even that vent isn't big enough fer' her t' get through," he says, gesturing up to the vent in the ceiling above the bath. "We'll hole up here 'till the others give us th' all clear. Then we'll be outta' here soon as transport gets here."

"How long will that be?" You ask.

"The dropship?" he asks. "'Dunno. Didn't get an ETA. Could be a few hours, though." McCree suddenly frowns. "We'll prolly' have'ta go back t' the Watchpoint before we get ya' home..." he seems a little uneasy at this, but you really can't help but find your mind wandering elseware. "Anyway," he steps over, taking a pillow and handing it to you. "Make ya'self comfortable n' we'll take a look at ya' head."

You look around, eventually deciding to lay down the pillow on the floor and sit on it, your back resting against the side of the bath tub. "What was that?" You finally ask when McCree kneels down in front of you, brushing your hair out of your face to inspect the damage.

"What was what?"

"That... whatever that was that attacked us."

He frowns, reaching over and taking a washcloth from a nearby rack. "Bit of an old ghost," he eventually replies. He rises up, taking the washcloth to the sink and wetting it. "A dangerous one, though." He wrings out the cloth before coming back to you, gently dabbing at the stinging spot on your hairline. "This looks a lil' nasty, but it ain't nothin' Angela can't fix."

"Do you know him?" You ask.

McCree raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"The way you spoke to him..." you pause, wincing a little as he wipes off some blood from around the spot. "It sounded like you know him."

He's silent for a while, formulating a response as usual. Something about his expression is different, though. He almost seems sad. "I did. Once." He takes a moment to further inspect the spot, satisfied with how he's cleaned it up. "He's diff'rent now, though. Not the same person I knew."

"Can he... can he do that thing anywhere?" You ask. "Where he just... appears?" Jesse shrugs and you find yourself tensing up. "So he could get me anywhere."

McCree shakes his head, tossing the cloth in the sink and, to your surprise, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Nah, that ain't gonna happen. Not while I'm 'round." You know it's just a gesture, and you know he's probably trying to keep you calm while you wait, but something about the way he says this is incredibly comforting. You realise that you actually believe him, especially after everything that's happened tonight. If he actually cares about you and not just his mission is another question entirely, but right now it's enough for you to hold on to.

He reaches out, taking another one of the blankets and draping it over your shoulders, arranging it so it's wrapped around you. "There ya' go," he says under his breath. "We'll just hole up here 'till Ana gives us th' all clear. You just rest and warm up." You flex your hands -- you hadn't even realised how cold you've been this entire time. He sits down, leaning his back against the cabinet, listening to the chatter coming from his watch. You realise you're still wearing his suit jacket. Wasn't he cold in just a shirt? "You feelin' okay?" he asks.

"Neck still hurts," you reply.

"Nah," he shakes his head. "I mean up here," he explains, tapping at his head. "Reckon' that was a lot t' take in."

You respond with a nod, exhaling, relaxing into the pillow and blanket a little. "I'll be alright."

McCree doesn't nod right away, instead studying you a little beforehand. Eventually, though, he accepts your answer, even if he might not believe it. It's odd, really. Before all of this, being stuck in a bathroom with him would have been your worst nightmare. But now? Maybe it's because it's finally apparent how much danger you're in, because you understand that he really does need to be near you all the time. You're not sure. But it's different.

You don't hate having him around right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments! Please keep them coming because they're keeping me alive kek


	8. Somebody That I Used To Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood, wound talk, medical stuff

It's not a long wait before McCree receives the all clear -- only a few hours, actually. He helps you up, leading you out to the living area of the suite, still unwilling to leave you totally by yourself. Honestly? You can't say you really want him to right now. Not with everything that's happened today.

Eventually, another agent knocks at the door, Jesse stepping out only to let them in. When they return to the living room, you recognise him -- the figure who saved you from this 'Reaper' guy. The one with the bow. "Ms Beaumont," McCree begins, taking a seat next to you, "this is Hanzo Shimada. One o' the Overwatch agents."

Hanzo gives you a nod of acknowledgement, and something about him piques your interest. He seems familiar. Not from before, but... like you've seen him somewhere else. "Thanks for before," you finally say, trying to put the feeling to the back of your mind. Maybe you can ask McCree later. "You saved my life."

"I was merely performing my job," he dismisses. You notice he's decided to stand while the both of you sit. Something about him seems to remain on edge, honestly. Is he always like this?

McCree shifts, lighting a cigarette before handing you the packet. You don't even need to ask him -- he just knows. This doesn't really surprise you, though. As if you _wouldn't_ need a cigarette after all this. "Anything to report?" He asks. "How's the gang? They all ok?"

Hanzo nods. "76 was mildly injured, Tracer has managed to hurt her arm, but no one has been seriously hurt, no."

"Guessin' that means they got away?" Hanzo nods in the affirmative, McCree cursing under his breath, pausing to take a long drag before he speaks again. "If they're involved with this, we can't 'ave 'em runnin' round like this."

"Perhaps if 76 would let us shoot to kill..." Hanzo trails off, the two men exchanging something. McCree's expression reads as a bit of a warning, Hanzo only challenging it for a moment before continuing. "Perhaps your 'friend' can provide us with more insight."

McCree raises an eyebrow. "How'd _you_ find out 'bout that?"

"How do you think?" He replies, crossing his arms, a tiny, tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth. "Do not worry. It is safe with me."

Exhaling, he leans back into the couch, scratching at his beard with his free hand. "No one saw her 'round, did they?"

"Yes," Hanzo replies with a nod. "Providing cover fire."

The cowboy shakes his head. "I'll see what I can do. Ain't gonna' make no promises, though." He quickly looks to you. "This don't leave this room, ya' hear?" He waits for you to nod before looking back to Hanzo. "And we gotta' head back t' the Watchpoint after this?" He asks.

"76 is insistent," Hanzo explains. "He will probably wish to perform a blood test on you, now that you have come into contact with Talon." It takes a moment for it to click that he's speaking to you now.

"What?" You blink, glancing between McCree and Hanzo. "Why?"

Hanzo opens his mouth, but McCree speaks first. "Long story, Sweet Pea," he says, the mention of his pet name for you earning a raised eyebrow from the archer. "I'll fill ya' in later. Trust me when I say it's fer' ya' own good, though." He reaches forward, taking the ash tray from the coffee table, stubbing out his cigarette butt while you nurse the remainder of your own. There's a ping on his watch, followed by a knock on the door. "It's Genji n' Tracer," he says. Hanzo is the one to step away to the door, letting the two in, still seemingly on edge when he returns.

You've already met Lena, who admittedly seems a little worse for wear. She flops on a lounge seat across from you, her dress uniform dirty and a little torn in some parts, her hair a mess and her lip split. The other figure in the room must, by process of elimination, be Genji. He offers you a wave, which you return, hoping that he can't tell you're trying to work out if he's human or Omnic. He doesn't look like any Omnic you've seen before, but you can't be sure. "Good to see ya' in once piece, love," Tracer says, wincing as she rolls her shoulder. "Had me proper worried when I saw how close Reaper was to ya'."

"Are you okay?" You ask, watching her roll and flex her shoulder with concern.

"Think I've done my shoulder," she says. "It's happened before, don't worry, all fixable -- but _bugger me_ does it hurt!" She smiles as she says this, a laugh in her voice. You're unsure if she genuinely is unphased by her injury or if she's just trying to keep you from worrying.

"Well, 'spose it ain't all bad, takin' ya' t' the Watchpoint," McCree suddenly admits. "Reckon' it'll be good t' 'ave Angie look at ya' head, check that concussion out for ya'." He pauses, looking to Genji. "How's she doin', anyway? Been a while since I heard from her."

Genji gives a few nods, which you suppose is probably necessary given that you can't see his face. "Good. Much less stressed now that Novocaine is helping around the medbay."

"Novocaine?" McCree repeats. "Who's Novocaine?" He looks around the room, uncomfortable expressions on the faces of the agents until he hits that moment of realisation. "Oh." He clears his throat. "When'd she get a code name?"

"When she officially enlisted," Hanzo replies.

"'Scuse me?"

"Angela insisted," Genji quickly adds, an urgency in his voice, trying to diffuse the situation. You look to McCree -- his jaw is tensing up. He doesn't like this, whatever it means. "She has been so helpful that--"

"Ya'll gotta' be kiddin' me," he growls. "You tellin' me that she's locked up in there and ya'll still got her t' sign up?" You look around the room. What the hell is going on?

Hanzo exhales, glancing to Genji, who backs off. He's taking over the situation. "It was her own idea. She made the request herself. Angela merely sponsored her application." He pauses for a beat, waiting for McCree's rebuttal. There's none. Hanzo continues. "She is still operating on low clearance, but it has been good for her. She is happy."

"Yeah," Tracer adds. "Winston trusts her enough to let her patch him up now, for what it's worth."

"Should we be having this discussion in front of..." he trails off. You haven't introduced yourself yet. He probably has no idea how to address you.

"Indeed," Hanzo responds with a nod. "It is rude for us to leave Ms Beaumont out of the conversation."

You quickly look around, shaking your head. "Me?" You ask. "No, it's um. It's fine. I wasn't really paying attention, anyway." A lie, one that absolutely wouldn't have gotten past McCree -- but it wasn't meant for him, anyway. "I was too busy thinking about what happened." There's another knock on the door, and Genji all but jumps at the opportunity to vacate what has become a quite uncomfortable discussion.

He returns with two others -- Ana and an older man, one who you can assume is 76 both by process of elimination and the large '76' on the back of his jacket. Ana makes a beeline for you, taking your face in your hands. "How are you feeling?" She asks, brushing your hair from your forehead to inspect the wound. "We definitely need to have Angela take a look at this," she exhales. "It's quite deep."

"Dropship should be here in twenty minutes," 76 says, his voice firm, looking at whatever device he has on his own wrist. "I want everyone ready to go."

"Come," Ana begins, her voice decidedly more gentle than 76's as she offers you her hand. "Let's gather your things and get you changed. As nice as your dress is, I can't imagine it will be comfortable to wear around the Watchpoint."

As Ana helps you change and pack what you can in such a short period of time, you can hear McCree argue with the others from the next room. Most of what they say is inaudible, muffled through the walls, but you can make out one name specifically.

June.

* * *

Even with Overwatch's involvement, if someone had told you six months ago that one day you'd be in a medical ward with a Swiss super scientist and a talking Gorilla, you wouldn't have believed them. But here you are. In a medical ward with a Swiss super scientist and a talking Gorilla. And to think -- you thought Hanzo stopping Reaper with a bow and arrow was weird.

"And her blood results?" The Gorilla -- Winston, he introduced himself as -- asks as he pushes up his glasses, reading over a datapad.

"Perfectly clear," Angela replies, glancing to you with a smile. You like her a lot, although you have to wonder if anyone could possibly be capable of _not_ liking her. "Ms Beaumont has a clean bill of health spare for a mild concussion and a minor head wound."

"Excellent!" He seems a little more excited about this than he should be, but it's been clear to you from the get go that there's something they've been keeping from you, even if Angela has been outrageously polite about it. He nods to you, looking up from the datapad. "You'll be free to go soon, Ms Beaumont. We just have a few security measures to enact. We'll set up a room for you in the meantime -- I'm sure you could use some sleep."

You give a polite laugh, trying to play off how bizarre this whole thing is to you. "I'm pretty sure I could sleep for a week if you'd let me."

"If I could? I would," he chuckles, "but your people have insisted that you come home as soon as possible. Oh!" He quickly slides the screen of the datapad, shutting the display off. "Also, I've been meaning to tell you -- but we need to ask you to _not_ contact anyone outside the Watchpoint while you're here." He must notice the clear confusion on your face. "One of the security precautions we're taking," Winston explains.

"That's... going to make my second in command... anxious," you say, a slight wince on your face. "But I trust you."

He smiles. At the very least, everyone you've run into has been polite. "If you need anything during your stay, let us know. I have to go speak to 76 about what happened now." He gives you a wave. "Nice meeting you."

You watch him go, hoping to god that Angela doesn't pick up on the fact you're a little confronted by a talking gorilla. But she does. Of course she does. "It's okay," she says with a laugh, taking a staff that's been resting against one of the walls during your discussion and approaching your bedside, "I thought it was strange at first, too."

"Do you think he noticed?" You ask.

Angela shrugs, pressing a few buttons on the side of the staff as she speaks. "What matters is that you didn't call him a monkey or ask him any rude questions," she assures you. "He will appreciate that... this may feel a little warm." The staff suddenly lets out a sound, a gentle kind of airy noise, and suddenly you feel a warmth come over you, almost like someone's turned the heat up. "This is the Caduceus staff," she explains, noting how you must be staring at it, trying to figure it out. "A short time with this and that wound will be good as new."

"How does it work?" You find you're almost laughing, so in awe with this... thing. You notice it seems to be connecting to you via some sort of beam. That's where the warm is coming from. It feels nice.

"Nanobiology," she replies, as though that response is sufficient enough. Despite this, she continues. "It works in a way that speeds up the healing process, stimulating your cells to begin regenerating. That's why you feel so warm." She looks to the tiny display on the staff, before reaching out and pressing the 'call' button by the side of your bed. "I have to see to Tracer now," she informs you, footsteps audible from the other side of the curtain that keeps you hidden from the rest of the medbay, "but I'll leave you in the hands of my assistant while the staff finishes up."

The curtain is pulled back ever so much, a figure stepping in. "Everythin' alright?" She asks, stepping in to your space, pulling the curtain closed behind her. She glances at you, but only momentarily, her main focus on Angela.

"Yes. Ms Beaumont, this is--" she cuts herself off, stopping herself from saying whatever she was going to say. A slip, perhaps? "This is Novocaine, my assistant." She turns to Novocaine, handing her the staff. "I have it on a twenty minute cycle, level two to save her unnecessary fatigue," she explains as Novocaine takes the staff. "If her head wound isn't sufficiently healed, try again for another ten minutes on level four."

"Sure thing," Novocaine replies. Angela gives you a short and polite nod of acknowledgement before excusing herself, off to treat the others. Novocaine pulls the seat up by the side of the bed and sits, holding on to the staff. "Level two," she muses, glancing at the display. "Reckon' that's th' first time I seen her set this thing so low in a long time. You musta' been pretty lucky."

Something about her is... strange. You've met a few Overwatch agents now, but she seems different. Out of place, almost. And not only does she seem out of place, but something about her feels familiar, like you've seen her face somewhere and can't place it. Maybe you saw her on the way in. You do, after all, have a concussion. "I have a good security team," you reply, giving a shrug.

She chuckles suddenly, taking you off guard a little at the brashness of it. "Don't go tellin' Jesse that, his head's big enough as it is," she warns. Novocaine pauses suddenly. "He ain't been botherin' ya', has he?" She asks. "'Cause when they told me he was doin' security for ya', I didn't realise you looked so... you know."

"...Looked so _what?"_

"Pretty." She gestures to you with her free hand. "Hell, ya'll here without any makeup n' with messy hair n' ya' pretty as a picture. N' if I know Jesse, _and I do,_ he woulda' turned up that charm n' flashed ya' that smile n'-"

"He hasn't," you interrupt, shaking your head.

She seems shocked by this. "Well," she laughs, "colour me surprised. Usually Jesse can't help bein' the knight in shinin' armour." She pauses, leaning back into her seat. "Maybe he's finally grown up a lil'."

You watch her, and she seems to be genuinely impressed with this concept. You wonder how exactly she knows him. She's dressed in scrubs and works for Angela, so you can assume she's a nurse of some kind. He's probably tried to hit on her at some stage, too. "Did he try it on you?" You ask.

She smiles, shrugging. "Guess ya' could say that."

"You must know him very well," you muse. "Or, well, I assume you know everyone well." You pause, frowning. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply anything."

"Don't worry 'bout it." She waves her hand dismissively. "I know most people here pretty well," she explains, "ain't been here very long, but most are friendly. Probably know Jesse and Hanzo th' best, though... Hanzo's my partner," she adds. "We got a lil' girl t'gether."

"How lovely," you say with a smile. Although brash at first, you're quickly coming to like Novocaine. She almost seems excited to talk to you. Maybe because you're not part of Overwatch. "How long have you been here?" You ask.

Novocaine purses her lips together in thought, her eyes moving upwards as she counts on her fingers. It's now that you notice one of her arms is cybernetic, a sleek, white metal. "Let's see... June's five months old..." she counts in her head before turning her attention back to you. "Right, so I've officially been with Overwatch for three months now, but I was helpin' out before that."

"June," you repeat. Something about that name is so, so familiar, leaping out to you from your fuzzy thoughts and memories. "I like that name."

Novocaine gives a smile, reaching into her pocket with her free hand. "We chose it 'cause it translates well inta' Japanese, too," she explains. "Wanna see a picture?" She asks. "I mean, I ain't meanin' t' brag, but I'm so busy 'round here these days that all I got t' talk 'bout anymore is work, June n' gossip, n' I figure ya'll didn't wanna' sit here in silence or nothin'."

"No," you insist. "I'd love to." You blink. "Hanzo. He's the one with the arrows, right?" You're somewhere between creating polite conversation and actually struggling to remember, but you're not sure what one is less embarrassing.

As she unlocks the phone and hands it to you, she laughs. "Yeah, that's 'im. You musta' really bumped ya' head hard, poor thing." You take the phone from her. "That was Angie's birthday party," she explains. "Last time Hanzo gives a baby a hand full o' cake. Reckon' he learned his lesson pretty good."

It takes you a minute before you realise exactly what you're looking at. On the screen is the image of Novocaine, Hanzo, and Baby June. In the photo, June has smashed her cake against her father's face, a hand-print of icing on his cheek, Novocaine laughing beside them. "I've... I've seen this before..."

Novocaine raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"I've... I've definitely seen this." And then, suddenly, through the haze of your concussion, it's clear. You remember this photo, and suddenly it makes so much more sense. Novocaine seeming familiar, recognising Hanzo from somewhere, and hearing June's name before during an argument not meant for your ears...

It's McCree's phone wall paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sin coming soon.  
> i PROMISE


	9. Take Me Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Swearing, racism

"You wanna hold her?"

Jesse's rarely speechless, but right now, he can't seem to find the right words. He's usually quicker than this, always ready with a quip, or what needs to be said, or at least a way to distract from the fact he's unsure how to proceed. But right now? He's completely silent, unable to do much else but stare at Novocaine and the baby in her arms.

It's his first time meeting her. You're sleeping in the room they'd set up for you, and without much else to do, he'd found himself wandering around the Watchpoint until Novocaine sought him out. And now he's here, in the room she shares with Hanzo (one of the larger ones that used to belong to Reyes when things were less complicated,) unable to take his eyes off baby June. "Ya' sure?" He finally asks, shifting from one foot to the other. "Ya' ain't afraid I'll drop her or nothin'?"

Novocaine merely rolls her eyes, stepping over to him and gently placing June in his arms. June seems a little confused, but she doesn't make a fuss. Instead she stares at Jesse, wide-eyed, examining the new and unfamiliar face. God, her eyes are exactly like her mother's. "There ya' go," Novocaine coos, stroking June's back gently as she leaves her to Jesse, comforting her daughter a little.

Jesse, once again, finds himself entirely speechless. He can't be honest right now, even though he desperately wants to, because he feels like Novocaine might understand what's going through his mind right now. What do you even say in a situation like this? How would he even begin to tell her that he feels a little robbed? That little feelings from the past are popping up every time he sees the way that she looks at her child? He can't. He won't. Not after everything that's happened. "She looks just like ya'," he remarks.

Novocaine chuckles, shaking her head. "She looks _way_ more like Hanzo," she insists. She's not wrong. June does carry more of her father's features. She has the same mouth as her father, the same shade of dark hair, and the way she frowns in determination as she grabs Jesse's shirt with her tiny hands is almost identical to the expression Hanzo carries when he's concentrating on his aim. Her face is chubbier, although Jesse suspects she'll grow into it as she gets bigger, but he can absolutely see Hanzo there. It's absolutely obvious, actually, but Jesse supposes he might have been trying not to see it. He's happy for his friend, he really is, but this...

"I met ya' friend," Novocaine muses, snapping Jesse out of his train of thought and opening the small cupboard above the sink, removing a little tin of tea. "Th' Aussie one. She seems nice. You been behavin' yerself?"

"I been behavin' myself just fine," he exhales. "Why's everyone always askin' me that?"

She turns her head a little, turning on the kettle, smirking. "'Cause I know what you like, Jesse." She turns back, removing two mugs from another cupboard. "Pretty thing like that? Surprised ya'-"

"I'll have you know she's a pain in my..." he trails off, glancing to June. "...A pain in my _behind._ " He says, stressing that he's avoiding a curse word. "She ain't my type, anyway. She's so stubborn, n' she's always arguin' with me. I'd reckon' she ain't ever listened t' anyone a day in her life." He pauses, realizing that Novocaine is staring at him, leaning back against the bench, arms crossed with an eyebrow raised. "...What?"

"You have t' be th' least self aware man I've ever met," she laughs. "Sounds exactly your type t' me."

Jesse purses his lips at this. Part of him wants to argue the point, but he's finding it hard to gather the will to do so while he has a baby in his arms, staring at him as he speaks. "...Yeah, well, even if she was my type, doubt she'll want anythin' t' do with me."

The kettle gives a quick beep and Novocaine turns to face the bench again, opening the tin of tea and scooping some into each mug. "What makes ya' say that?"

"'Cause she always fightin' with me, tellin' me how badly behaved she reckons I am. And anyway," he explains, June's little fingers playing with one of his buttons now, distracting him for a moment. "I'm sure she ain't gonna' want a bar of me now she knows bout... ya' know."

"What an ass you were?"

He exhales. "Yeah."

Novocaine laughs to herself a little, shaking her head as she fills the mugs with hot water. "Ya' know, 'fer someone who gets 'round much as you, ya' sure don't know much 'bout women. 'Sides," she gestures to the small dining table in the room, not far from the tiny kitchenette. "I didn't tell her nothin' 'bout it."

He watches as she moves to the table, sitting down the mugs and taking a seat, joining her soon after, June sitting on his lap, now content shoving her fingers in her mouth and gaggling away to herself. Jesse wonders if this is her way of joining their conversation. "Really?" He asks. "Nothin'? Not even a lil' of it?"

"Well, I figured it ain't none of her business," she replies with a shrug. "I mean, I can tell her all 'bout it if ya' want me to..."

"I think I'm good, thanks." He reaches forward with his free hand, holding June with his metal one - which she is now _fascinated_ by - and looks into the mug. "What's this?"

"Pu-erh tea," she replies factually, lifting her cup and inhaling, a smile on her face. "Mei gave it t' me, reckon's it's real good fer ya'. I reckon' ya could use it. Ya' look like trash."

He raises an eyebrow. "Thanks." Jesse watches June for a moment, lifting his hand a little so she can grab onto his fingers, her eyes wide, a grin on her face. "Since' when ya' started bein' so healthy?"

She takes a gentle sip from her mug before responding, smiling at her daughter's curiosity. He can't help but wonder if she's also smiling at him handling the baby, but he doesn't dare ask if that's the case. Not when Novocaine seems so at ease. "Angela reckons lookin' after myself might help wit' the neurochemical levels."

"And?"

"It's helped a lil', I reckon," she replies with a nod. "Levels been lower than ever recently. I mean, lotta' that's been through Angela's hard work. She been doin' a lotta' research, tryn' new things... but I reckon' eatin' right ain't so bad. Willin' t' try anythin'."

Jesse gives a nod. "Right. Angie. Gotta' talk t' her."

Their gazes meet, and Jesse realized he's forgotten that he's talking to one of the handful of people who know him well enough to read him. "You leave her alone," she warns, "most of it was me. I insisted."

"Why?" He asks. "I just can't wrap my head 'round why ya'd wanna' join up wit' Overwatch after everythin'. Thought ya'd been itchin' t' get outta' here soon as they'd let ya'."

"'Cause I stopped focusin' on th' bad things that happened and started focusin' on th' good," she says, her tone blunt, as though it were obvious. "Lotta' bad stuff happened, Jesse. They took ya' from me, they made Talon come 'fer me, they put me at risk, they made me stay here... but honestly? Where else was I gonna' go?" She asks. "Back t' Ogdenville? After all that? Overwatch put me through a lot but they also gave me a lot. Sure, Morrison might not like me very much, but I got somewhere fer' me n' June t' live. I got a new arm. I get a good paycheck, I get t' do real nursin', I get t' stay with Hanzo." That last point stings a little bit. "I got real purpose here, Jesse. There's a future for me here, one where I get t' actually _do_ somethin', one that June might be proud of when she grows up, ya' know?"

He can't fault this reasoning. Maybe this is part of what's made Jesse so uncomfortable with this -- knowing she's so happy here and that he never could have provided this for her. Almost like he's... inadequate now. He supposes that he deserves it, really. "How's Hanzo likin' fatherhood?" He asks, quickly changing the subject, trying to distract himself from the fact that while Overwatch gave her so much, they also gave her an arm with a bomb in it.

Novocaine smiles, well aware that this sudden change in topic means he's unable to debate her feelings on the matter. Not that he really has any right to. "He's so happy, Jesse," she says, "he absolutely adores her. Sometimes he'll get up in th' night t' feed her n' when I wake up in th' mornin' he's still asleep on th' couch with her in his arms."

He smirks. "Got any pictures o' that?"

Novocaine reaches for her phone, swiping it over. "You bet ya' hat I do."

* * *

You're still a little groggy when you're asked to come to a meeting. It's been roughly a day, and although you're much more lucid and no longer confused, the concussion lingers ever so much. Mostly, though, you feel tired. Exhausted, actually. Although you're starting to wonder if you're just legitimately exhausted after everything that's happened.

There are only a few members of Overwatch in the briefing room -- McCree, Ana and 76 -- and the air feels a little... tense. Although, you can't help but question if that's how things always feel around this 76 guy. "There's a mole," he finally announces once you're seated. He doesn't hesitate, and you realise that you're in for a very blunt conversation. "Someone on your team is feeding intel to whoever wants you dead." He taps a button on the desk, and an image projects from the centre of the table. A small dropship in flames. "It was shot down, and we made sure it was secure information when we sent word to your people."

You raise an eyebrow. "I'm... confused."

"It's a decoy," Ana explains. "One of our Agents on the ground at the CSIRO sent us some information that suggested there's been some deliberate information leaks. So we sent an old dropship out and told them that you were on it to see what happened."

"So th' Feds caught wind n' shot it down..." McCree exhales, shaking is head.

Ana suddenly glances to 76, waiting until he gives a nod of approval to continue. "Actually..." she pauses for a moment, as though to brace herself. "It was Talon."

McCree blinks a few times, dumbfounded. "...Ya' gotta' be shittin' me."

"I'm afraid not." Ana shakes her head, looking to you for a split second as though to gauge your own reaction to the development. You can't say you fully understand what exactly this means, though.

"Th' hell they even haveta' do with this, anyway?" He asks.

"Well, if there has been a mole, I think it's safe to say the Federal Government are entirely aware of exactly _how_ involved we are," she explains. "And who knows how we work better than Gabriel?"

76 crosses his arms, the leather of his jacket giving a quiet squeak. "Knowing him, he probably reached out to _them._ "

"So now what?" You ask. "I can't just stay here. I have to be in the country."

McCree lets out an exhale, his lips pursing. "Might not have much of a choice, Sweetpea. Ain't safe fer ya' t' go back to ya' offices. Not 'til we sniff out this mole, anyway."

Your jaw tenses, and you suddenly feel your stomach tighten, the all-too-familiar at this point feeling of adrenaline washing over you. "No," your voice is firm, almost in a way that sounds like a warning. "I have to be in the country. I have to be able to address everyone and physically be there. I can't run away."

"And we can't keep her here," 76 adds. "Liability. Can't be risking a Talon attack. Especially given we have a child on the base now." That last part is especially pointed, and judging by McCree's expression, it hit its mark.

"Then we need to find somewhere secure," Ana says. "We can provide security, of course. Secure means of communication for you, act as a messenger until we can assure your safety..."

"I know exactly where," you suddenly blurt. You haven't been there in a long time, not since... well, it was before Eric passed, but... "Eric had a property -- well, actually, technically it belongs to his parents -- but it was our little getaway. Top floor of an apartment building in Melbourne. Not conspicuous, very private. We used to stay there when things were really getting crazy."

"Melbourne?" 76 repeats. "Not actually a bad idea. Pretty well removed from the politics right now." He's not wrong. Sydney is more or less the hub of everything right now, while Melbourne is more the heart of the country's culture and recreational industries. Honestly, you used to joke with Eric about the entire state seceding one day. "And you say it's not public knowledge?"

You shake your head. "No. We took every step we could to keep it a secret. Well, I mean, once there was a Pizza guy who recognised us, but we told him it was an Air BnB."

"That's also where Satya is posted," Ana agrees. "It will be convenient, indeed."

"We'll look into it," 76 decides. "I'll have Symmetra perform a sweep, and if that goes well, we'll ship you out ASAP."

* * *

Satya brushes her hair behind her ear, holding on to the above-head rails on the interior of the 86 tram. It's been another day of Melbourne's unpredictable weather, which is, oddly enough, entirely predictable. It was hot enough during the first half of the day that the post-lunchtime rain has caused the air to become damp and sticky, making the inside of this tram comparable to a luke-warm sauna.

Part of her wants to step off the tram, walk into the nearest safe place and call Winston back. Part of her wants to tell Winston that the security sweep of this apparent safe house can wait until after peak hour so that she can go somewhere quiet and not have to stand arm to arm with a bunch of strangers who are all decidedly sweaty in this climate. But she doesn't. She's already on the tram, she's half way to her destination, and she has a mission to complete.

A man bumps into her, not apologising, the force causing her to stumble into a woman who clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes at her. Two more stops. Just two more stops. She can do two more stops.

There's a baby crying. No one is doing anything to attempt to sooth it. Teenagers behind her laugh. Her jaw tenses and she tries to centre her mind. A man in a nearby seat stares at her intently, not caring that she glances at him every now and then, not caring that she knows he's staring at her.

One more stop.

She doesn't like this country very much, compared to others she's been stationed in. A young blonde woman boards the tram, and a nearby man immediately stands to offer her his seat. She's perfectly able bodied. Something about this is causing Satya to fume, but she's struggling to put her finger on it. Instead, she stares back at the staring man. It doesn't change anything.

Finally, her stop. "Excuse me," she says, moving to shuffle through those surrounding her -- but no one moves. "Excuse me, please," she repeats. One woman steps aside, but no one else does. " _Excuse me!_ " Satya raises her voice, and only when she begins to physically push through people do they begin to part, allowing her through the doors and onto the street.

"They're all so rude," a voice murmurs from inside the tram. She turns to follow it, but the doors close, and the tram begins to whirr away up the tracks.

Satya exhales, closing her eyes, trying to again to centre herself. Focus on her breathing. Follow the lessons that Zenyatta had tried to teach her. It gets harder and harder here. She remembers the address clearly, reciting it in her head, but holds her phone inside her pocket anyway. It feels nice. It's grounding her. She advances up the street, counting down the street numbers as she passes them. This is not what Winston _or_ Jesse McCree had described as her duties on this mission.

Eventually she comes to the correct number, number 14, and stops, looking up at the building. It's a tower, almost. She gazes from the streets, looking for the front entrance, performing the math in her head for security turrets and systems that can potentially be installed. Someone bumps into her as they pass, a woman, scowling and shaking her head. "This isn't India," she snaps as she walks away, "we don't just stop in the middle of the bloody street."

Satya opens her mouth to argue, but quickly re-assesses. She doesn't want to make a scene, and definitely doesn't want to be noticed. She had a job to do. Arguing in the street with a strange woman isn't going to change any opinions, either. Not when people operate so much on emotion, and not on facts.

Factually, she thinks, as she keys a pin into the door of the lobby, there is probably _less_ foot traffic congestion in India as the large and condensed population creates more of a need for fast paced and organised walking. Stepping into the elevator, she swipes her palm against the keycard receiver, the hacked components within possessing the same code as the original that the Beaumont woman has provided. Factually, she thinks, the elevator beginning to whirr its way up to the top of the building, people stop in the middle of the street to inspect their surroundings often and in more places than India. Rome, she suspects, would probably be the worst offender.

Factually, there was no reason for that woman to bring up her race. If she was annoyed with the way she stopped in the middle of the street, scolding her behaviour would have sufficed. There is no link between race and inconsiderate behaviour. Behaviour is not genetically coded according to national demographic.

But, factually, there's no reason for Satya to bother arguing with it, either -- because _everyone_ here seems to be like this. She steps out of the elevator into the small alcove of the apartment and takes a moment to reflect on how it makes no statistical sense that a country with such a racially diverse population could be so intrinsically racist. It's an anomaly, almost. If racism stems from xenophobia -- the fear of the unknown -- then Australia makes no sense. Australians know Indians very well, not to mention people from Asia and the Middle East. And yet, the national identity behaves as though they have never seen anyone foreign before.

Satya taps the side of her glasses, a holo display appearing and beginning to scan the room for any electronic signals or anything else suspicious. It's not as advanced as her usual visor, but she has to make do. Visors don't blend in here. The CSIRO uses them, yes, but they're usually kept in the facility. As against her ethics as a lot of the CSIRO's weaponry research is, she must admit she feels more at home there than she does on any of the streets here. It's full of minds from all parts of the globe. No rolled eyes or stares or comments about her supposed 'submissive' nature -- just science and collaboration. Harmony.

Satisfied that the signal coming from the television is entirely normal for the model, she opens the sliding door to the balcony and begins to assess what spots would be both the most effective and discreet for the positioning of a security turret.

She misses the Watchpoint, and makes a note to tell the Beaumont woman what an inconvenience this entire exercise has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry guys, had some huge job interviews come up and was pretty much barred from writing fic as a result because I didn't want to... you know. Conflict. Can't say what it was but. You know.
> 
> Anyway, sin is right around the corner. ;) Thanks for sticking with me. More Symm, Junkrat and roadhog in the next few chapters too


	10. Can't Help Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Sexual situations, war, violence, mention of death, spousal emotional abuse

"Fancy digs ya' got here," McCree says, flicking on the lights and illuminating the living area of the apartment. "Surprised ya' ain't livin' here."

You carefully step further inside, looking around, almost feeling as though this place belongs to a stranger. "I haven't been here since... well, Eric was still alive." You clear your throat, trying to avoid slipping into the puddles of memory after memory that seem to appear everywhere. The table where Eric decided to finally start his own party, the kitchen counter where you'd both try -- and often fail -- to make good ramen, the couch you fell against when... That's not such a good memory, actually.

You notice McCree stops, his bag slung over his shoulder, staring at something on the wall by the hall. "This you?" He asks. It's a moot question. It's obviously you, all dressed up in your equestrian gear, a blue ribbon pinned to the bridle of your horse and a medal around your neck. "Didn't think ya' t' be much of a rancher."

"Rancher, no," you scoff, setting your own small bag of things down and moving beside him. You'd honestly forgotten about this photo. You'd actually kind of let that entire period of your life slip your mind. You had to be... what? 16? 17? It was life before university, life before Eric, before politics. "Rich kid with parents in a country club, yes." You glance at him, a little surprised by the way his eyebrow is curiously raised at the photo. "Don't tell me you're surprised. You had me pinned as privileged the day we met."

"Where I come from," he begins, "workin' with horses ain't really an agreeable hobby for rich folk. Just reckon' it's curious, is all." He shrugs. Glancing to the other photos on the walls. Photos of you and your family, Eric and his. Your wedding photos. "Good judge'a character, I reckon', bein' able t' build trust with horses."

You reach down and pick your bag back up from the ground. "Why's that?"

"They see through ya'." He follows you down the hall, ending his explanation there.

You eventually come to a stop, opening the door of the spare room. "You can sleep here," you explain. "It's practically unused. We never really had guests, spare for Eric's cousin once." You remember her. She was an odd one. About to get married, wanted a last trip before tying the knot. She was a little uptight, even for you, but you suppose most high society women are like that in a way -- the fact she was a dancer probably didn't help. The ballet lifestyle must have been pretty strict. McCree tosses his bag onto the bed, taking a look around the room. "You've got your own bathroom, too," you add, gesturing to the ensuite.

He takes a peek inside, a smile stretching across his mouth. "Now _that's_ a tub if I ever seen one." He's not wrong. It's a large corner bath -- Eric never skimped on the plumbing. "...Those jets?" He asks. It's amazing. It's as though seeing the bath tub flicked a switch that turned him into a kid.

"...Let me go get you some towels." You can't help but laugh at little to yourself as you turn and head to the linen closet. Maybe being cooped up here with him won't be so bad, now that he's not as insufferable to you. Maybe you can even become friends, or have a minimally good time. You take four towels from the closet and return to the guest room. "Here you-- ...McCree?"

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, face tense, almost blank as the images and videos project from his phone. Fire. Smoke. People fleeing, screaming past the lens of the hand-held cellphone footage of your party headquarters, up in smoke. Another clip plays, an explosion shaking the ground as windows blow out of the building, smoke billowing out. "Just got this," he finally says, his voice quiet, almost a whisper as he glances up at you. The footage suddenly cuts out, a call coming through. When McCree accepts, the face on the other end of the line is Derby's. "Thank fuck!" She exclaims. "Was worried they'd hit you too."

"We're fine," Jesse says, waving you over to sit with him. He wants you in on the call. "What's the situation?"

"Buncha' bombs went off in that fancy ass building of hers," she explains, nodding to you when you're finally in range of the phone. "Ripped right fuckin' through a bunch of it, most of ya' council thingy is gone..." Derby pauses, her voice softening a little. "Sorry, Love."

Jesse doesn't give you time to respond to that, his head far too into the game to really allow you to. Honestly, though, you need time to process this. If anything, he's saved you a little. "What about you?" He asks. "Junkrat? Roadhog?"

"Jamie and Hog are fine," she assures him. "We were lucky -- half way into a Macca's run when it happened."

"Where are they?" He asks.

Derby pauses, her lips pursing a bit. "That's the thing." She shuffles, the camera moving, rising over her head. She isn't somewhere safe at all. There's fighting, and she's taking cover while Junkrat and Roadhog fend off what look like soldiers. "Feds showed up. Callin' us terrorists now. Fuck that for a joke, ey?"

Your hands cover your mouth at the sight of this, and Jesse gives a long exhale. He opens his mouth to speak, but you get in first. "You've been in contact with the Rebellion?" You ask her.

"Sure have. Hog here's all but a fuckin' general at this stage. _'Eat the Bourgeois'_ this, and _'Marxism now'_ that."

"Well, consider it official. I'm making you all Generals of the People's Rebellion as of right now." Plans whir in your mind. Adrenaline takes you over. "Do you have a plan?"

Derby grins and gives a nod. "Bet your ass we do! Hog and Jamie are holding the front, I'm getting together who we can and organising the shit outta' them."

McCree suddenly scratches at his beard. "You sure this is safe--"

"I reckon I can handle meself," Derby cuts in with a grin, her free arm lifting something up. Whatever it is, it's releasing a lot of flame. "Hogs got his old Liberation Front mates on the way, and we'll head to one of their bunkers when we're done here. You just worry 'bout gettin' our shit together. We aren't fuckin' around anymore."

And, like that, Derby drops the line. McCree makes another call, this time to 76, but you sit there silently, staring at your hands, replaying the images in your mind and realising what this is going to mean.

Your party headquarters are gone. People are dead. The government have declared you terrorists. Any chance of changing things through a movement or legislation are gone. You're now working with the Liberation Front. More political cells are coming together to support you, united under the banner of the People's Revolution. Overwatch might step up their presence now. He ends the call and says something, but you don't hear it. "Sweetpea?" He repeats, putting his hand on your shoulder.

"I... I have to go," you stammer, rising to your feet. "I have to be there."

"It ain't safe," he says, shaking his head.

You ignore him, leaving the room, grabbing the bag you'd set down and heading for the living area. "Get someone to come get us. We're going."

He's following you, not that you've noticed. You're too busy getting your shoes back on. "We ain't goin' anywhere," he insists. "We're stayin' in here 'till we figure out what's goin' on an--" he grabs your arm suddenly, his grip firm, but not more than enough to surprise you as he turns you to face him. "Hey now!" He snaps. "I know yer' upset, I know this is hard fer ya', but there's a lotta' people 'bout t' jump into a big fight right now and they need ya' to use ya' head, 'cause ya' ain't no use t' anyone kidnapped or dead or whatever they got planned fer ya'."

"Don't fucking touch me!" You snap, pulling away, stumbling a little as you do. He baulks a little. Maybe it was the way you rose your voice, maybe it was the fact you swore at him. Maybe it's the way you're looking at him. "I'm done with this!" Something is bubbling up inside you right now. You're not sure what it is, anger? Sadness? Grief? Whatever it is, it feels like a pressure building in your chest. "I never asked for any of this! I never wanted to lead the party or start a fucking _war_ or get Overwatch involved! I just wanted to do right by Eric!" You're crying. Shit. When did that start? "When Cromwell asked me to take over he said it was a figurehead position and I could eventually step down." Your voice cracks as you say this. "I have to be there. I can't just sit in here and watch."

There's a silence that follows. McCree just stares at you, and all you can really do is stare back and wipe your eyes, a mix of embarrassed and maddened at this situation. He moves, swiftly, causing you to flinch automatically, expecting him to try and drag you from the door. Your face is suddenly against his chest, his arms around you, holding you against him. "Hey now," he says, his voice gentle in the same way it was back in London. "I know this is real hard. Reckon' you got tossed right in the deep end." His hand is stroking the back of your head now. It's... weird. On one hand, this is incredibly comforting. On the other...? It's... something about it is making you feel awkward, like you don't know how to react to it. "I know ya' wanna' help, I get that. I wanna' be down there, too, doin' th' right thing. Reckon' we got that in common, you and I, not liking to see folk in trouble without bein' able t' help 'em. But there ain't nothin' we can do right now. So we gotta' wait here 'til we figure out how we _can_ help, 'kay?" He pauses, pulling back a little, his hand moving to come under your chin and tilt it upwards, your eyes meeting his. "Second it's the right time, I'll head there right with ya'."

You're absolutely speechless. This is all a lot. Like, _a lot._ You notice some of the details of his face -- a few nicks and scars, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, a line of scar tissue that cuts through the tail end of his right eyebrow. Things you never noticed before, things that you almost feel guilty for noticing. "Ok," is all you can muster, an indescribable feeling of shame washing over you suddenly, looking away, averting your eyes because something about actually _looking_ at him like this almost feels perverse for some reason. "I'm sorry. I... this is... stressful."

His hands move to your shoulders, giving them a squeeze. "You got a tub in your bathroom?" He asks. You give a nod and he smile. "I reckon' we're gonna' run you a bath, let ya' calm down a lil', then we'll get some good food inta' ya'." He steps back, giving you a smile before turning and moving towards your room. "Holy smokes!" He exclaims eventually, his voice travelling from your ensuite. "Reckon' ya' could fit five people in here!"

It's not until you hear the sound of running water that you realise you haven't actually moved. How do you even proceed right now? This feels awful. Everything is wrong. Everything is in absolute shambles, and now this? In the little home that you built with Eric? This feels... dirty. It was only so long ago that you wanted to slap McCree in the face, that you wanted him to leave you alone and be replaced with someone else.

And yet, there you were only moments ago, looking into his eyes and wanting to kiss him.

* * *

McCree is right. The bath does help. He even put some of what he calls 'the bubbly stuff' in for you. You want to pretend your surprised at this level of consideration and care for you, but you can't say you're surprised anymore. Which, in itself, is surprising, really. You can hear the TV from the living room. He was watching the news for a while and you could make out some muffled words about the bombing, but now he's switched to something else. You wonder if it was because he'd had enough of it or if it was too much for him, too.

You can't stop thinking about before, and whenever you try to think of something else, you realise the alternatives right now are worse. You can think about him, or think about the fact this is happening in the same place you lived with Eric, or think about the incredible disaster in Sydney, or the impending war you've managed to start. Thinking about McCree, while filling you with a painful anxiety, is the better option when it comes down to it.

Has this always been there? This... attraction? Were you ignoring it this whole time or were you blinded by how rude you found him at first? Sure, his getup is a little dopey with the whole cowboy thing, but now that you know him? It's weirdly fitting. And underneath the dumb hat, his face is the same face that you... and when he's in civilian wear of just a shirt and his jeans like he is now, he's quite...

This is ridiculous. You decide to look at this logically. You're in a place full of memories of your dead husband -- your dead husband, who, honestly, wasn't always the best to you. When things got bad, it tended to be in this apartment. This place is very emotional for you as it is. Add the bombing to the mix and you're probably desperate for some kind of comfort, so enter McCree and you have the perfect emotional storm, really. You smile to yourself a little. God, imagine if you were a little bolder. You could let it happen. Have a fling with your bodyguard, let off some steam, find that comfort you need right now. Honestly, these days you're so on edge and full of adrenaline that you probably _could_ be that bold if you wanted to. But you don't know that he wants that. He probably thinks you're a mess, honestly.

Although, your mind wanders back to Novocaine. 'Just his type' was the phrase you think she used. Or something similar, anyway. She seemed to know him well. Incredibly, well, actually. You should probably ask him about that some time, get to the bottom of that whole mystery.

Deciding you've had enough of the bath, you reach down and remove the plug, standing and stepping out of the tub as the water begins to drain. You dry off, eventually wrapping the towel around yourself and stepping into your bedroom, hoping there's something comfortable in the dresser, left from when you used to stay here.

You rummage through the drawers. You come across an old, comfy t-shirt, tossing it onto the bed, intending to wear it after you find something like a pair of leggings. You're sure you had some in here. You always have a set where you can help it, they're essentials for times like this. When you open the third draw however, you stop. The lingerie draw, back from when you used to actually _wear_ it. You start to look through the draw, removing a garter belt to inspect it. God, you used to spend so much on this stuff. There's probably thousands of dollars in this draw, and you've only worn it all once or twice -- in fact, some of it, you realise as you continue to look through it, are things you've never worn at all. In fact, you can't remember wearing lingerie since Eric died. Has there really been a need for it?

You catch yourself mid-thought and frown. What are you thinking? Has there been a need? Has there ever been a _need_ for lingerie? Has a man ever undressed a woman before sex and then changed his mind because she's not wearing a matching set? No. In fact, come to think of it, you liked the way you felt in lingerie. You lift a bra from the draw, inspecting it, your finger tips running over the luxury of the perfect stitching, the high quality lace, the silken fabric. No, it was nice to wear lingerie. A private peace of luxury.

You can't help but wonder if it still fits, and decide quite quickly that there's only one way to find out. Honestly, any form of distraction right now is a welcome one.

Deciding on the black set you never got to wear, you finish drying off and begin to dress yourself. When the set it on, you can't help but stare at the mirror. God, it's been so long, but you still look... great. Better than great, really. Probably better than you used to. Maybe you should wear this more often, for yourself rather than--

The door opens and your heart stops before McCree notices you. He's half way through saying something, asking you about dinner or whatever, but the second he does set eyes on you he stops. "Shit!" He snaps to himself, quickly closing the door with a slam. "Sorry!" He shouts from outside the room. "Thought you woulda' still been in th' tub with the door shut."

"It's called knocking!" You shout back, your face burning, grabbing the towel and holding it over yourself even though the damage has already been done. "What, were you raised in a barn!?" You realise it was entirely an accident, and his apologies sound sincere, but you can't help be defensive. It's a knee-jerk reaction, like a flinch.

"Alright, alright!" He calls back. "I'm sorry! I barely saw anythin'!" He mumbles something to himself, and it's inaudible. "Come see me in th' livin' room when ya' done." You hear his footsteps travel down the hall, and once again you're left alone, your heart racing, your cheeks burning like you've been out in the cold.

That was... not the bad kind of exciting. It was...

Oh no. You know this feeling, the one that burns in your centre, the one that makes your abdomen tense and your jaw weaken and your chest tingle. Did you... _want_ him to see you? No. No, no, no, that's ridiculous. Or, well, no, not entirely ridiculous. He's quite charming and is very kind to you now that you know he's not a complete asshole like you initially thought... you find yourself toying with the idea of going out there in your lingerie and...

Absolutely not. You can't have a fling with your bodyguard. You're a politician. You're a woman of importance, with a lot of responsibility, just like Eric.... who, in the end, had a mistress of his own. Some secretary of his. A bodyguard is _kind of_ like a secretary, right?

You glance to the door. You could do it. What's the worst that happens? He says no? He rejects you? Says you're too close and has to swap for another agent? Even if that happened, at least you'd be able to work with a bit more of a clear head.

Glancing down at the bed, you think about how tired of sleeping alone you are. You're already handling most of this alone, or at least the wordy bits. Why can't you have your fun? Eric had his when he decided he couldn't even go on political trips without it, Cromwell has his -- you've heard him bragging about it -- and so do other men you work with. Why not you? You're not even married anymore. You're not doing anything wrong. And that man out there has saved your life and taken care of you and smells _really good._

You quickly shake your head. A fantasy, that's all it is. As though breaking free from a spell, you quickly get out of the lingerie and shove it back into the closet, back to where it belongs, along with those... ideas. This is just a symptom of being lonely. You're under a lot of stress, surrounded my memories of your husband, and your mind is jumping to conclusions to try and alleviate it. Obviously.

Instead, you opt for the most un-sexy clothing you can find: An old pair of grey tracksuit pants and an old band t-shirt covered in small stains, the bottom seams worn through. Where you got a Midnight Oil t-shirt, you're unsure, but it's comfortable and unattractive as sin on you.

As you head down the hall, you realise you're suddenly hyper-aware of everything. The way the carpet feels under your feet, the sound of your own breathing, the noise from the TV in the living room. It was nothing. It was all in your head. You're going to go out there and treat him the same as you did before, and not jeopardise your relationship.

Relationship? Shit. No. Wrong word. Friendship...? Are you even friends? Colleagues?

When you arrive in the living area, McCree is sitting on the coach, somewhat spread out and well settled in. He glances to you, a small smile on his face. "Feelin' better?" He asks. "I called our other field agent 'bout some food, hope you're in the mood fer' pork chops."

Gingerly, you take up the space beside him, making an effort to leave a little room between you. "Probably a good idea," you concede, "I could probably use the iron. I haven't actually cooked pork in a while..."

McCree shakes his head. "Sweet Pea? I know how t' cook exactly two things: steak n' pork chops. Damned if I'm gonna miss out on an opportunity t' flex my cooking expertise." He laughs at his own joke, which would have been a little annoying if you hadn't joined him. God, he's charming. Shit. No. He's not. He's a dork and he's unfunny.

Desperate to distract yourself, you gesture to the TV. "What's this?" You ask.

"Farmer Wants a Wife," he replies, his voice a little bit reluctant. "One of them reality shows."

"Oh, that's the one like The Bachelor but it's--"

"In the country?" He finishes. "Yeah. N' I mean, sure, guess these are farmers, yeah. But they ain't real rustlers or nothin'," he explains, gesturing to the man on the screen who's batting away flies from his face while a very well made up woman cries in front of him for some reason. "I guess this is alright if ya' like potatoes. No offence, though, but ya'll don't make 'em like we do where I'm from."

You raise an eyebrow. "So if you were producing this, what would you change?"

He shrugs. "Probly' take 'em down t' New Mexico or somethin'. Introduce 'em to some ranchers and watch 'em get their hands _really_ dirty."

"Is that what you were?" You ask, glancing to him momentarily. "A rancher?"

"Nah. Not me. My ex wife was, though." He says this so casually that it almost doesn't even register with you. But when it does? Holy shit. Ex wife? He was married? Someone married him? He could put it away long enough to commit to someone?

You blink, unable to look away from him now, fascinated by this reveal. "You were married?"

You watch as he shrugs again like it's no big deal, not looking away from the television. "Long time ago," he admits. "Married young, long 'fore either of us had grown up enough to know ourselves, let alone another person."

"Is she..." You trail off, not really wanting to finish this sentence. You hate having to tell people Eric is dead, you can't imagine it'd be much different for him.

"Divorced," he replies. For a second you see something in his expression, a flicker of something. Sadness, maybe? But it's gone within seconds. "She's remarried now," he explains. "Worked out better, I reckon'. Neither of us were happy." He quickly looks to you, realising you're watching him, and a smile appears on his face. "Guess marriage just don't work out fer' everyone," he muses. "Seems like it worked fer' you, though. Musta' been nice." He looks around, glancing to the photos of you and Eric that litter the walls.

You can't really pinpoint what makes you say this, but it comes naturally. "It wasn't perfect," you admit, scratching at your neck a little. "The more into things Eric got politically, the more..." You search for the right words. When did this get so vulnerable. "Things just changed. I don't know if it was me or Eric, but we weren't that happy." You wonder if you should tell him the specifics, like the time Eric smashed a glass during an argument about his work hours and blamed you for it entirely. Or the time he sent you pictures of himself and his mistress as an act of revenge after you stood up for yourself. All the times he threatened to take everything from you if you left him and ruined the image you'd both built. The pressure he put on you to keep up appearances. _'This is bigger than us,'_ he'd say. _'Don't be selfish.'_

McCree shifts. "I'd heard as much," he admits. "When I was doin' m' research it popped up. Put it off as gossip, though." He pauses, glancing to you momentarily. "...Sorry that it's true."

Neither of you speak after this, the vulnerability followed by silence. Eventually, you find yourself watching the TV, but it's so boring watching a bunch of models help brush off potatoes that you find yourself drifting in and out of sleep.

Your dreams are just as problematic as your mind was when awake. You dream about him, how warm he feels when he brushes against you or holds you for whatever reason, the dip in his voice when he's being sincere, the way his laugh seems to vibrate through you now. Dreams are harmless, though, surely? You can allow yourself this.

And then, something touches your face, and you wake suddenly. Your dreaming suddenly makes a little more sense -- you have, somehow, wound up leaning against him in your sleep. Or, well, leaning doesn't do it justice. You're sort of curled up against him, and he's accidentally woken you up by carefully brushing your hair out of your face. You gaze up at him, suddenly very, very aware of every part of yourself. Your heart is racing, and when you note his expression, you can feel your face burning. It's like he's embarrassed, caught in the act, maybe. Neither of you say anything. You wouldn't even know _what_ to say.

When it happens, it's like it's out of your control, as though you've completely abandoned any resistance and have decided to just let your body take over. You tilt your head up, shifting a little so you're closer to his eye level, and you kiss him. It's not the kind of kiss you imagined you'd first have, not sexually charged or overly passionate. In fact, your lips only sort of brush together, and it feels like a gamble. But then his arms drift around you, gripping you a little, your breath hitching as you kiss again and your lips properly connect. Still testing the waters, but neither pulling away.

You shift further, moving to your knees on the couch, leaning into his hold more as your kisses become longer and deeper, walls of resistance seeming to crumble with every one. Eventually, he exhales, his hand on your hip tightening a little. "This is a bad idea," he whispers. Although he says this, he doesn't move away or do anything to encourage you to remove yourself at all. His hands roam up your back, one coming to cradle the spot where your head meets your neck. "This is a real bad idea." He kisses you again, the kisses lingering, long -- and when you kiss him back, he seems less willing to point out that is this, indeed, an incredibly bad idea.

"We don't have to," you finally reply, your forehead resting against his, just relieved he didn't throw you off him and call you a lunatic or something. "I'd just... like to feel something else right now. Anything."

He slides his hand under your shirt, his hands roaming further and further upwards, feeling your form as he lifts your shirt, eventually bringing it over your head. He's surprisingly gentle with you, honestly, his hands running over every newly discovered part of you like you're made of marble. There's something in his eyes when you pull away to lift his shirt over his head, like he's in complete shock or maybe awe at the situation. It's encouraging, really. You could even call it an empowering feeling. Was this all it took to shut him up? Really? Men are so simple sometimes.

Your fingers wander to his belt and he gives another sharp inhale, like he's struggling to hold something back. "You sure 'bout this?"

"Uhuh," you give a not, unfastening it, a smile of victory on your face that you beat the stupid as hell belt buckle that he always insists on wearing. "Are you?" You ask, dipping in for another kiss. "You won't get in trouble with Overwatch?"

He pauses, visibly taking a second to think about this. "...They don't gotta' know." It's back to business after this exchange, silence broken by deep breathing and the shuffling of fabric as more clothes are removed, leaving you naked spare for your panties. "You got any...?"

"I'm covered," you reply.

"I'm serious," he says. "Not that I think you got anythin'. Just. Ya' know."

You roll your eyes. He's probably right. Even though you have an IUD and _you're_ disease free, you have no idea where _he's_ been. And knowing what he's like, he's probably... been a few places. Better safe than sorry. Giving an exhale, you rise from the couch. "Gimme' a second," you instruct, half-running to your bedroom. If you remember correctly, you still have some in your bag that you bought before London. Just in case. There was a Saudi Prince coming and you didn't want to rule anything out. Maybe wishful thinking on your part, but convenient now. Bingo. You find them and immediately make your way back to him, not wasting any time, opening the packet before you even reach the couch.

When you arrive in the living room, though, something has changed. The lights are all on. He's tensed, staring in the doorway, only glancing to you when he realises you're there. His eyes are wide, like he's been caught out.

You throw your arms over your chest when you realise what's going on. In the doorway to the alcove stands a woman, dressed in a trench coat, hands full of shopping bags. Her expression is... you honestly have no idea _what_ to call it. It's somewhere between horrified and furious. You're too mortified to move. Who is she? How did she even get in here?

McCree eventually clears his throat, glancing between the two of you. "Uh. Mrs Beaumont... this is Satya Vaswa--"

"I'm contacting Winston immediately," she announces, all but throwing down the bags and storming into the kitchen.

McCree quickly re-fastens his belt and clumsily throws you your shirt before pulling on his own. "Hey, Tiny Dancer, come on!" He calls. "Lemme' explain!" He all but leaps over the couch once he's dressed, rushing into the kitchen, where you can hear her shouting about 'unacceptable behaviour.'

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I AM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY. I've been super busy with some interstate business trips.  
> Exciting news: I've been invited to appear at the Australian National Young Writer's Festival 2017 as a featured artist! All because of fanfiction! So I really, really need to take a minute to thank you guys so much for your support. Fanfiction *CAN* be a legitimised form of literature, and not only legitimate, but a subversive one! Please don't ever be embarrassed by your fanfiction, because fanfic is still writing and writing is good and I will fight anyone who makes you feel bad for it. 
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this chapter like three times and I'm only just satisfied with it now. I guess we can thank Dream Daddy for making me re-examine what I'd written. Sometimes, I think, less is more. But whatever. I'm sorry for the delay, there is way more, actual sin coming very soon. But there's a lot of tension to work through, kids. ;)
> 
> Love you, thanks for your patience. Also, check out my website: www.elizabethdanger.com

**Author's Note:**

> IM BACK  
> SORRY ABOUT THE DELAY I NEEDED A BREAK  
> I'm here though. Please stay with me. I know you've probably got a lot of questions about the political stuff but all will be explained. Promise.  
> Okay im very excited about jesse mccree sin tho omg guys it's been so long <3


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